The Genesis Anomaly
by Red Dead Wedding
Summary: Unlikely lovers, an evil mastermind with a dangerous game, and a battle for survival that will gather a group of heroes and force them to work together for the first time ever. The clock is ticking...and time is almost up. ChrisxAda, LeonxSherry, ClairexPiers and the NEMESIS (who doesn't get to X anyone thank god). RATED M for language, gore, and suggestive content. Art:YegiHCH26
1. Genesis:1

_**A/N:** I started this story a few years ago. There was minimal interest in it due to the fact it is a weirdo pairing (Chris and Ada or Wonfield XD). It's a tad OOC in my usual way with Chris having depth and Ada feeling (haha). But it's a love story, in a way, so it's the way of things. There's an evil mastermind, an infection, a maze and some blood and squishy stuff. I enjoyed it. It had one reviewer (Softi) but it was so fun I didn't want it to die and stay dead. SO...here it is on my other pen name instead. Where I endeavor to put my weirdo stuff. Enjoy. And thank you for reading._

* * *

 **Chapter 1: Incubation**

* * *

" _And so she looked and in looking, wanted. And so she wanted and in wanting, yearned. And so she yearned and in yearning, loved."_

* * *

 ** _NEW YORK CITY, OCTOBER_**

The musical tinkle of broken glass was lost under the pound of bass, the rapid gasp of shallow breathing, the meaty slap of striking skin. The picture glanced off his shoulder and hit the ground in a shower of shattered frame and memory.

Without a concern, he hefted her higher against the wall. Her laugh was like lightning in his blood, spurring him toward the delicious, delirious, and very delightful end of oblivion. It was a siren's song, the promise of nothing. It lulled and beckoned as he buried himself inside of her, hands wrapped around her thighs to hold her as if she weighed nothing.

Who she was didn't matter. It had never mattered. It would never matter. She was faceless, formless, and thoughtless. She was nothing. She was a hole for him to bury himself inside and a body that was warm and willing. She was a woman and, for just a few minutes in her embrace, she was emptiness.

She moved to kiss him and he diverted her mouth, burying his face against her breasts to avoid it. He didn't want the intimacy, didn't want the touch, the contact. He didn't want the pretense of feeling. This wasn't love. This wasn't lust. It was simply forgetting, and any move to make it more would ruin it.

His biceps and shoulders bulged beautifully as he lifted and set her down repeatedly on his eager body. When the angle was still wrong, he spilled her eager flesh across the kitchen table, rolled her onto her stomach, jerked her hips up toward him, and pounded himself into her soft body from behind.

He was fully aware she was writhing and tossing, screaming, making mewling cat noises. He was glad, in a way that she was enjoying herself but it didn't matter. She was willing flesh and her wants didn't change anything.

When she shuddered with orgasm, he pushed her flat against the table, kept one hand on her back to hold her there and readjusted her hips. The perfect angle was found two strokes later. He found it, worked it, felt her buck and pant and scream, and let himself follow after her. His body grabbed it's release, spilling wet and hot into the waiting condom.

He took his hand off her back and stepped away. She remained spread out over the kitchen table for a long moment like an obscene thanksgiving dinner.

It made sense seeing as he just finished stuffing her like a turkey.

She rolled onto her back and smiled at him, happy. "Wow. That was…"

"Yeah," He turned, naked and resplendent, and started to hunt for his clothes.

The waitress on the table had to admit he was something to see. Huge was your first thought when you met him. All shoulders, chest, and arms - the guy was almost obscenely muscled. She had trouble picturing him as an accountant or something. Why would anyone need that much muscle? Not that she was objecting…it worked. On him? It WORKED.

The light was still on in the bathroom and it cast a silvery glow over him as he dressed. It was a shame to cover up all that wonderful flesh. He wasn't exactly movie star handsome. Admittedly, he was a good looking guy, she mused, but he there was a cut of jaw or a line of brow or something that stole the word "cute" from the description of him and replaced it with things like "rugged".

He had a few days' worth of whiskers on his cheeks and hair cropped pretty close to his head. There was just enough of a style to the hair that it brushed the edge of fashionable. But it also had the look of a man who wasn't afraid to shave it down to the scalp to get it out of his way.

His eyes were blue and quite lovely set amongst some pretty thick eyelashes and a suggestion of crow's feet which made her speculate he was somewhere on the back side of thirty. He rocked it though. That was for sure. He was pretty sexy for an old guy.

"I've been waiting for you to talk to me, you know. You've been coming in to the bar for weeks."

He shrugged as he slipped a gray t-shirt over his head. He followed it with dull gray hoodie with a faded UMASS logo on it. The outfit worked in a basic way. Faded jeans, brown boots, t-shirt and hoodie. Nothing to get a girl's excitement chugging. That was until that jacket came off and you saw those arms.

It's certainly what had drawn her in the first time.

"Will I see you again?"

He shrugged again as he headed for the door. "Probably not."

From out the hallway came a little blue eyed girl of about three. "Mommy?"

The guilt licked like tongues of shame around his guts. He hadn't known there was a kid waiting for her. He felt like a son of a bitch from bringing the mother home to the child drunk and used.

Instead of facing the guilt, he fled. It wasn't his fault the mother was a whore with no tolerance for the sauce. Right? Right. Right….right.

He took the stairs two at a time down to the main floor of her raggedy apartment building. She lived in a flop on the back side of Tribeca. The area was as shitty as the building. But she was one of a thousand waitresses trying to make it as an actress in a city that ate crappy waitresses for breakfast, shit them out for lunch, and ate them again by dinner.

What could he say, it was a shit eat shit kinda world.

He crossed on foot toward the subway. It was a bit of a hike through the one of the crappiest slums around but it didn't worry him. There were very few people in the world stupid enough to try to mess with him. At this time of night it was him, three drunks, a handful of rowdy college kids, and your friendly neighborhood flasher on the subway.

He stayed standing, watching the muted screen flashing the five a.m. newscast. Snow was on the agenda for the next week. That would make for a happy fucking Halloween for the kids who'd be trick or treating in six inches of the white stuff. Admittedly, he'd have loved it as a kid.

He exited at his stop and started the six block walk to work. Logically he could go home, grab a few hours sleep. He was the boss, essentially. What was the point of being your own boss if you couldn't make your own hours? But, as usual, sleep eluded him. It was pointless to try to sleep when all you did was run from the nightmares. Pointless.

The building was wedged happily between two others in the industrial section of the meat packing district. It wasn't leased, which was a great triumph that had taken years and years of financially investing and planning, and it was, in most ways, his second home.

The lobby was done in pale white marble and soft yellow walls. It was tasteful and typical and nothing special. It looked like the lobby of any other building complete with two security guards who waved happily at him as he crossed it. A bank of elevators graced both sides of the hallway. He pressed the button for the penthouse, scanned his fingerprint into the scanner, and looked quickly into the retinal scanner for verification.

Cleared for access, he stepped onto his private elevator. It whisked him up forty eight floors to the top of the building. The penthouse was his private quarters when he was in the city. It hadn't been decorated by him at all. Everyone knew his Spartan taste wasn't much different than a sofa and a tv.

It was urban chic. Family pictures lined the walls here and there and were intermixed with artist's whom he wouldn't know if he were paid to. The color scheme varied. The main room was very black and red, very eye catching. It faded into his bedroom that was more blue and grey.

He could waste time thinking about it, but he seldom did. It was courtesy of his sister. So he didn't worry much about it one way or the other.

The bathroom was complete with a custom shower with eleven spouts. They hit his body at all angles, taking the guess work out of bathing. It was, he admitted, lazy. And he loved it. He tossed aside his clothes and climbed into the shower.

The bathroom was green marble and antique fixtures. One wall was an entire mirror. He was narcissistic enough to stop and flex once as he brushed his teeth. Every muscle bunched and stayed taut. He was a lot of things but out of shape wasn't one of them.

His stubbled face stared back at him from the mirror. The eyes were sky line blue framed by thick and spikey lashes. They were pretty eyes, passed down from two blue eyed parents. There were slight hollows under those eyes, dark circles from lack of slack, and those were passed down by Umbrella. He toyed with the idea of shaving and tossed it aside quickly enough.

Naked, he walked through his penthouse. One entire row of walls was nothing but windows. This high up the only people seeing his junk would be of the avian variety. And if a curious pigeon wanted to see his twig and berries, they were welcome to.

Suits weren't his forte but he owned enough to get by. He slipped into a gray pair of dress slacks over a pair of red boxer briefs. A men's dress shirt in screaming scarlet went on next over a white undershirt. He added a tie in a darker shade of red and left the matching gray suit jacket hanging on the back of the chair.

Surprisingly he looked pretty spiffy. It wasn't that he was incapable of dressing nice, he just didn't bother. For the most part, he was a jeans and ratty t-shirt kinda guy. But a business meeting required a certain level of decorum. He felt, sometimes, he was leaving his soul behind when he put on a suit. Some men belonged in Armani and some men belonged in Hanes.

It was a necessary evil to don the monkey suit and one of a thousand little deaths that had happened to him since starting his company. He was in the boardroom this morning, not on the battlefield. Although sometimes they were one in the same.

A half hour later found him in his office, enjoying a cup of strong black coffee and fielding his first boring phone call of the day.

"No. No you misunderstand me. I don't care about the red tape. I can't ask anyone to go out into the field without the right protection. I need the vaccines for my operatives yesterday." He listened, sighed, and combed a hand back through his hair. "Again, I don't think you're hearing me. I'm not sending people into a T-Virus zone without being inoculated. So if you want the area contained, "The door to his office opened, "then I suggest you get me those vaccines."

He ended the call and turned.

His assistant was standing in the doorway. Inga was his life line. She kept him going on a daily basis. She was the mother of three full grown boys and had the battle scars to prove it. She had artfully coiffed gray hair cut into a flattering pixie on a long, thin face. She was model skinny and had a perfect complexion that was now set into amused lines.

"What?"

"You're seven o'clock is here."

"This is funny?"

"It will be when you see what she's wearing."

Inga turned and gestured.

Ada Wong stepped into his office. And he got the joke

She was wearing a feminine version of what he was wearing. Only her pencil thin skirt was black. But her top was screaming red as were the ice pick heels she wore on her long, long, long legs. There was just enough cleavage exposed in the top to leave the viewer tantalized.

She was, for lack of a better word, beautiful.

He'd acquired her for the BSAA shortly after their time together in China. She'd come over from the dark side to be an attaché for the good guys as a freelancer. It was still an uncomfortable fit for both of them. But he appreciated her many, many questionably obtained talents. And her contacts were legion.

She was kept on a pretty loose leash. Ada rarely answered to anyone on the food chain but him. And even he struggled to keep her in line. She pretty much went where and did what she wanted. As far as he knew, she no longer dealt heavily in the underworld. She kept her fingers in the pies there, of course, and on the pulse, but she didn't collect pay checks from the bad guys anymore.

She'd made a reputation for herself. She didn't have to sell out to the highest bidder anymore. He knew something had changed with her since China. She was no longer on the wrong side. He wasn't sure what it was, he didn't ask. And he wasn't sure it mattered. But she was helping the cause now. It was something to be grateful for.

"Ada Wong."

"Christopher Redfield." She cocked a brow at him as the door was politely closed by Inga. "I'd say this look doesn't suit you, but in a way it does."

"I'd tell you that you look beautiful…but I generally find it stupid to state the obvious."

"I tend to agree." She tossed the file folder in her hand on his desk. "The blue prints for the lab in Moscow. Although I suggest you consider sterilization instead of infiltration."

Curious he crossed around his desk and perched on the edge, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'm all ears."

"They're experimenting with something nasty down there. I'm pretty sure they have access to most of Spencer's research and a good portion of Birkin's."

"We knew this already. There's nothing new there."

Ada hesitated and he figured the next bit of intel wasn't good. "I suspect they have Wesker DNA down there."

Chris felt the back of his neck prickle. He wasn't sure what was on his face though. It felt stony and vaguely blank.

"How goods the intel?"

"Flawless. From the horse's mouth, so to speak."

"You get someone inside?"

"Of course. The asset is in place. Reports should be coming in weekly now."

Chris nodded. "Okay. Great. Thank you, Ada."

Ada shrugged a little. She shifted where she stood. "I don't usually make requests, but I'm going to make one."

"Alright."

"If you go in, I want to go with you."

He lifted a brow in surprise. "You want to be on the task force?"

"Yes. If they are trying to resurrect Albert Wesker, they need to be put down. The world doesn't need that psychotic asshat resurrected nor any of his brethren."

Chris laughed a little. "Asshat. Not really a word you expect to hear from Ada Wong."

"When the hat fits…" She paused, briefly. Her instincts said to leave it at that. But something on his face arrested her instincts. What did they call him? The Hammer? He didn't look like a hammer. He looked like a nail that had been pounded flat and lifeless. So, Ada broke her comfort zone and spoke to him levelly. Why? Because in all the years she'd been doing this, she had yet to work with a man she enjoyed nearly as much as Chris Redfield. He was a whirlwind of never the same thing twice. He was NEVER boring. And she liked to repay that kind of interest with her own, "You look tired."

It was an odd and personal statement. Ada wasn't known for personal statements. She often flirted, harmlessly, almost casually and could, by turns, be witty and dismissive. But she was seldom personal.

"Age and mileage."

She tilted her head, studying him. "The nightmares are usually easier if you don't sleep alone."

Uncomfortable with the excellent insight, he shifted. "And who's waiting at home for you to snuggle up to?"

"No one. But the nightmares left me alone a long time ago."

"Oh yeah. Why's that?"

"Because they figured out there was something a whole lot scarier in the dark then them."

"And what's that?"

"Me."

He smiled a little and pushed away from the desk to circle back and admire the sky line outside of the office. The back wall was entirely made of windows. It was a thing in New York, the ability to see the sky line. It's the only thing that kept people from feeling like beasts trapped in an urban cage.

The Big Apple wasn't his favorite place. There was no wide open wonder here. No easy to breathe, no water, no sky. There was just smog and slog and commerce and too many people bustling too fast, to go nowhere. He missed his boat and the water and the salty spray of the sea on his face.

But there was seldom time for that anymore.

Ada stepped up beside him. "I'm going to do something else I don't often do."

"What? Juggle?"

She met that bad joke with a very droll look. "I'm going to give you another piece of advice."

"Don't eat the yellow snow?"

Again, the droll look.

"Not even a smile? I must be losing my touch."

And then Ada Wong did something he couldn't remember her ever doing, in all the time he'd known her…she touched him. She put her hand on his arm.

It was so surprising that it stole the smart ass remarks right out of his mouth.

"Find someone, anyone, who understands and let it out. If you don't, it will eat at you until you can't remember anything but the smell, the screams, and the taste of fear like copper in your mouth. Find something to help you forget."

He met her eyes and, following her lead, did something he hadn't done in a long; long time…he put the jokes aside and told the truth. "I don't know if I can."

"You can. You haven't swallowed a handful of pills or stared down the wrong end of a gun. You can still come back."

She started to pull her hand back from his arm and he laid his over it. There was a tingle that spread from his fingers to his wrist. And it felt really good to acknowledge it.

He wasn't dead or blind or stupid. Standing this close to Ada was like being within a foot of a white tiger. It was too tempting, too exotic, and too rare an opportunity to pass up trying to touch…even if it meant you lost a hand in the process.

All the women, in all the world, in all the bars, and all the fucking…and he never once felt like he did with his hand over hers. This was what he'd been searching for…attraction; the thick, choking, burning kind that bred thoughts of tongues and teeth and sin. He tested that feeling by tracing his thumb under that hand and skimming her palm.

And she let him.

He lifted his eyes and met hers.

Part of him wanted to check to see if the room had caught fire around him from the heat in that look. He was fascinated by this almost painful attraction to her. It was dangerous and wrong on about twelve levels and as irresistible as a finger full of icing off a perfectly decorated cake. He wanted to dip his finger into Ada and see if she tasted as good as she looked.

He was betting she tasted better.

She studied his face and hers...it was so very controlled. Part of him wanted to tickle her just to see if she'd crack.

The ringing of his phone had her drawing away. It was interesting that it was her who did.

He'd been ready to tell the person to take a backwards flying leap off the first cliff they came to. He'd entertained running his thumb up her wrist and seeing how far he got. But she was quickly retreating.

He picked up the phone and hung it right back up.

"You'll call me if there's anything?" She turned to the door.

"Of course. Ada?"

She paused, met his eyes again. "Yes?"

"Thank you."

"Of course. I generally don't like to work for emotional cripples. It's boring. And I make it a point to never be bored."

She closed the door on his short burst of laughter. There was no way she could have known that that subtle little flirtation had awakened something in him.

For the first time in over a year, he felt like he was no longer blind. He just wondered what he would see now that his eyes were finally open.


	2. Genesis: 2

**Chapter 2: Infection**

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" _The taste was addiction, heady and needy and raw. She could think of nothing else and knew only obsession."_

* * *

 **NEW YORK CITY, OCTOBER**

The artist's name was Leliana Whitfield Frye. She was something of a sculptor. Her work was mostly metals and mostly lewd bordering on insect. In fact, most of her pieces looked like roaches in the middle of a series of vaguely disturbing sexual positions. But apparently insect coitus was popular because there was nary a piece that wasn't sold. A former first lady had purchased a piece of Frye's and put it in the White House. It had sparked a revolution of yuppies that wanted a piece of the up and coming "genius".

For the most part, Chris thought it resembled something a bored toddler did with play-dough. Although he was pretty sure the toddler would make it more realistic. He stood beside a rather painfully obvious brunette with more tits than brains displayed rather openly in a low cut green dress.

"It's really…visceral, don't you think?"

With his tongue in his cheek, Chris nodded. Although what he knew about art could abruptly be summed up in the time it took to armpit fart the National Anthem. "Oh very. Clearly this is meant to represent her emotional…" He just couldn't channel enough bullshit to finish the statement.

"Rape!" Cried the woman rather enthusiastically which really is one word that shouldn't be yelled quite so loudly in polite company. He jumped and barely kept himself from chuckling at the curiosity of those around them."Her rape by society and the loss of ideals."

Chris nodded again and cleared his throat to avoid laughing. "Oh of course. Naturally." He swept a scotch and soda off the tray being carried around by a woman dressed in an Eiffel Tower head dress. He was pretty sure the waitresses were all transvestites but he had to admit most of them looked better in a dress than a lot of woman he knew. After all, this was New York, and nothing failed to surprise anyone here.

He'd once gone to a fundraiser hosted by PharmREcon International that had the wait stuff entirely nude. Why? A better question in NYC was: Why not? No one flinched over the odd, the weird, the wild or the unusual. They did, however, dislike the mundane. So the less splash, the less you were enjoyed.

Chris moved toward the sculpture in the center of the room. It was ten feet of twisted bronze and gold. It looked like two snakes and possibly a fat belly spider trying to perform an uncomfortable 69. There was a tasteful water fall around it, highlighting it with lights and sparkling geysers. As he studied it, he realized it reminded him of what the RPD lobby had once looked like.

Feeling an uncomfortable nostalgia, Chris turned a little to head off to find his date.

Then he paused. Because through the sparkling water, he glimpsed the only sculpture in the room worth seeing twice.

She was dressed in shimmery, shiny red. What else? A timeless gown of silk and sin with spaghetti straps and a gathered silk neckline that suggested something wonderful beneath the flimsy fabric. Her hair, cut into a no nonsense but flattering and chic style, was artfully arranged around her flawless face. Her makeup was perfect, smoky and dark, highlighting the eternal mystery of her eyes. And her mouth…her mouth was a red promise of temptation.

She moved toward him, a flirty little smile on those red, red lips.

"And they call me the spy." She teased, with a sly smile. Tongue in cheek seemed to be the flavor of their friendship.

An interesting word, Ada mused as she moved, friendship. Were they? No. Not even remotely. She was an impossible woman to know. And even more impossible to befriend. She rarely let on the truth of her feelings about any one thing. She often flaunted her wiles in a nearly calculating way. She was seldom caught unaware of any attempts to know her or befriend her.

He hadn't tried. But he was interested. It was all over his face. Poker was likely NOT his game. He wore his feelings like some men wore t-shirts. She doubted very much if he cared who knew it.

The dove gray jacket had joined the suit, she noticed. And he managed to look like a gentlemen with polish. It never failed to surprise her that such a gruff and simple man could clean up and somehow fit into the upper crust of New York Society. The socialites of the city that never sleeps were often unforgiving of a man who seemed to lack sophistication and a certain amount of class. Chris Redfield was a lot of things.

He was, by turns, kind and protective. He was generous and loyal and brave. He was possessed of superior sense of humor and somewhat embarrassing addiction to junk food and beer. But sophisticated? Not unless one considered occasionally eating chicken that didn't come in a nugget to be sophistication. But that same devil may care attitude that afforded him a reputation in combat and in friendship, afforded him the ability to exist in a society that thrived on the preexisting notion that the world operated in a pattern of eternal ambivalence.

The motto of the NYC elite was simple: I-don't-give-a-shit.

Somehow, against the odds, Chris Redfield worked within that mindset. He had as much class as Mustang in a line of Maseratis. But he thrived here among the private school and Hamptons going, gala opening sect. Because he, quite simply, did I-don't give-a-shit with flair.

Ada laughed a little and he had to admit, it was a delightful sound. Like everything else about her, it reeked of grace. She was, hands down, the sexiest, classiest, and most fascinating creature he'd ever met.

The slit on her dress was so high he could just glimpsed the lacy top of one thigh high but he just knew, just KNEW, she was wearing a garter belt under that dress. That's what a lady wore. Ada Wong was a lady. With a capital "L". The kind that you opened doors for and opened veins for and gladly let walk all over you in her ice pick heels. How long had she been leading men around by the nose with her long, long fingers?

And would he let her? If she offered him something sly and slick and questing in the dark...would he let her?

He shifted as well because he was uncomfortably aware of the state of his own arousal happening slightly beneath his belt. It had been a long time since he'd managed to get hard without half a bottle of whiskey. Sex, like drinking, had simply become a way to forget. He punished his body at the gym, he punished his body with booze, and he punished his body with sex. It was just another way to try torture the dreams away.

"Mr. Redfield – keep this up and I might assume you're stalking me."

He shifted a little closer to her as a rather obese man attempted to shove through the narrow opening between his body and the sculpture behind him.

Chris put a hand on her arm to shift her out of the way. In the whole of gallery, the fat man had to try to fit through where he couldn't. In a way, it was great, because it meant Chris had the very real opportunity to put a hand on her.

She allowed it, more interested then anything in what game he was about to start playing.

She was good with games. Games were her thing. She'd been playing games for years. Since the dawn of time. In fact, she couldn't remember a time when she wasn't playing games. Part of that had been born in Raccoon City and part of it had been born before. The toss and turn of foster homes, the countless faces, the judgement and what came next. What came next had defined her. It had been one long game of pretending. She was very, very good at it.

And she had to admit, he was physically attractive to her. It had been awhile since she'd pursued a personal relationship with a man. Most of them she found too tedious, too predictable.

There was something…comforting about Chris, this was true. But not tedious. And not really predictable. He'd been a riot of actions and reactions in the last year since China. She'd seen him make rash, dangerous decisions and cold, calculative ones. He was a gauntlet of emotion on any given day.

She found she liked that in a man. And especially in him. She liked that he was impossible to pin down. And so, she did something she normally avoided, she let his hand stay on her arm.

"Of course I have. It's the only way I know how to get a woman interested."

With a charming sense of timing, he plucked a glass of sparkling yellow champagne from the circulating tray and pressed it into her hand.

"So tell me something, Mr. Redfield," She took a long sip of the bubbling sweetness.

"Chris."

Yea, Ada mused, charming in his own way.

"Chris." It was interesting to note the pleasure of his name on his face. He liked her using it. Again, she considered, was he aware that everything he felt was written all over him? She wondered if he'd care. He didn't seem the type to sweat the knowledge that he was easily read. She was betting, if he were to be interrogated, he could clam up with the best of them. Maybe he just didn't bother outside of the job.

Or maybe it had been a long time since he'd felt anything...and he just didn't remember to cover it up anymore.

Maybe.

Yes, she confirmed again, she was interested in him...to a certain degree.

"No wife? No children?" The answer to question was part of the process. He wasn't aware that she was screening him. She had a rigorous process for choosing a potential lover. If he passed, she'd move forward with the promise of it, if he failed – well he'd never be the wiser.

He shrugged, guiding them both comfortably to the edge of the fountain where they could sit and face each other.

"The timing was never right or the woman. And why bother? I've seen what hides in the dark, what lurks there. I've cultivated enemies with what I do. Why bring someone into the world that can be used as leverage? Why bring someone into the world that has to grow up in fear?"

It was a good answer, as far as truth went, a little maudlin perhaps, but honest.

"And if you were, to say, meet the right woman? If such a thing exists."

"Too late now. I'm too old. And too far into it. I have a baby. The BSAA is my baby. A big, fat, ugly, squalling baby that constantly shits itself."

She laughed again and angled her body a little more toward him. It was a very subtle movement but it set off bells in his head. Since he was neither blind, nor stupid, he shifted as well. And his arm brushed against her back.

That was a check on number two in his column. He could pick up on the subtleties of flirtation. So he was big and seemed like a lumbering buffoon but he wasn't. She didn't allow dumb men into her bed. It was too boring. If they were too dumb to sense the intricacy of a woman's intentions, they were too dumb to know how to pleasure one.

"And what about love?"

This was the big question and the most important. She wanted nothing to do with love or feeling. Friendship, of a kind, was ok when it came to lovers. But she didn't want them trying to make eggs and babies in the morning. She didn't want some man standing under her window with a Romeo complex declaring his love to her.

Chris smiled a little and opened his hand. She took it, tilting her head in interest.

He guided her toward the dance floor and smoothly turned her into his arms to waltz. It put another check in his column. A man that could dance was a man that could dance in all places. Why did it surprise her to know he could? He seemed, as always, the type to have two left feet on the dance floor. But he carried himself well here.

Was it necessity? Likely. And she could understand that as well.

In silvery ice pick heels, she was still significantly shorter. This was another plus. She was particularly fond of tall men.

"Love is for romance novels. And starry eyed teenagers."

"Love didn't send you to Africa to find Jill Valentine?"

Curious, he dipped her, spun her out, and brought her back in a smooth and practiced move. "Not the kind of love you seem to be hinting at." And he was quite curious how she knew about that mission. It didn't seem her cup of tea for a light evening read.

"You've never been intimate with her then?"

"Not in a long time. Once or twice, years ago. When we were young. It was fun and harmless. Jill isn't the type of woman you fall in love with."

Ada tilted her head a little, "An interesting statement. Why?"

"She's focused. She's driven. And she's not interested in love."

"...I can certainly understand the type."

Chris laughed a little, amused.

He brought her back from another turn and his hand settled on her back, at the top of her hips. A simple touch but it was enough to spark the beginning of something more.

The song ended and they remained, pressed together, for a long space of time. There were so many things that could pass in a look. Sometimes, it seemed, more than words.

She slid her hand just slightly inside of his jacket, over the smooth silk of that red shirt. It was a very personal touch and signaled more than another woman would by dropping her panties.

He took her arm to guide her over toward the hallway where there was a little more privacy. The sculptures there were just as hideous and the population sparce. He knew he couldn't wait much longer, he had to have a taste of her.

He moved a little off the path into the shadow of the room and she followed. She went easily into his arms now, liking the fit of all that muscle to her slim and sleek form. Her hands slid under the suit jacket and around his back to gauge the steely strength of him. It's what she'd always suspected, not an ounce of fat on him.

One arm wrapped around her, the other cupped the side of her face and he tilted her back, just enough to impress upon her a certain sense of romance. This surprised even as it delighted her. His thumb traced over her red mouth.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted to kiss a woman. It filled his belly with warmth that spread from fingers to toes and hair. He owed Ada Wong an enormous thank you for awakening the man long buried in the corpse.

It was delightful to feel again. To want. To feel the rush and press of desire in his head and loins.

One of her hands echoed his, cupping the side of his face, the other grabbed a handful of muscle on his back to hold on because her knees went weak and wobbling. He didn't kiss her, not yet. He kissed down the side of her neck.

He turned her into his body, feeling all those smooth, strong lines of honed feminine grace. She was slim, yes, but sleek and toned like a swimmer or a runner…or a goddess of the hunt. Her arms looped around his back now under his jacket as the kiss slid over her collarbone and his tongue dipped into the hollow of her throat, spilling a sigh from her lips of pure delight.

And he earned major points with her when he said, calmly, even though she could feel the rapid thud of his heart that matched her own. "I could be in trouble here."

Her hands trailed down to his waist and found the inner pants holster there that put his gun at the flat of his back. He was armed. Even here, even amongst the yuppies and the elite, he was armed. Somehow it managed to turn her on even more to know it.

She herself was wearing a belly band complete with a Ruger LCS9. A small, compact 9mm with a seven shot magazine. He'd felt it the moment he pulled her against him. You couldn't see it, somehow she hid it even in such a small dress, but it was there just in case. All she had to do was reach under the slit of her gown and pull it free.

"You look like a vampire that's preparing to feed..Chris."

There it was again...the echo of his name. He liked her saying it. "I'd like to try more of you. Tell me you don't know that."

She felt his excitement, hard and needy, pressed against her belly. "I know that. I believe we're in agreement, Mr. Redfield about where we'd like this to go."

"Let me take you home."

She studied his face, her head spinning from the surge of lust that speared strong and fast into her belly. A part of her wanted nothing more.

But she had enough sense to say. "Mr. Redfield..what kind of woman do you take me for?"

"I'd like to take you for my kind of woman."

"Do I seem the type to belong to a man? If you really think that, you haven't been paying attention."

"Ada...I'm not asking you to own you."

Wasn't he?

She mused, "What are you asking?"

He pressed her back against the wall into the semi darkness. She let him because it felt good to let him. Her hand skimmed his jaw and felt the stubble of three day old beard. "Do you need me to spell it out for you?"

"I like honesty. It's refreshing."

He put his lips to her ear. "I want to be inside you."

She'd asked for the truth. But it didn't stop the flutter of excitement from stealing her breath. And she was delighted to discover she felt the same way.

"I'll think on it."

"Ada...at least let me touch a boob."

She couldn't stop the light laugh. He was utterly uncouth when it suited him. But that, too, was part of his charm.

He was joking of course, completely. But she seemed to consider the idea for a moment. And then she said, "Should I ruin the romance of the moment with hard truth?"

"Are you married?"

"No."

"A lesbian?"

She laughed a little at the idea. "No. I assure you."

"Then how could you ruin this?"

Ada let him nuzzle the pulse point on her wrist and had to admit she liked the feel of him.

"I don't sleep around."

He furrowed his brow at her. "That's ok by me."

"I'm very selective of my lovers."

Chris studied her earnest expression. Again, he thought, that face said nothing. She was beautiful and elusive. He queried, "Am I at least on the roster for selection?"

"Are you laughing at me?"

"No…ok maybe a little. I'm not going to ask you to move in and play house, Ada. Don't worry."

"I don't take just anyone to bed, Christopher. For many reasons."

"Any why's that?"

"Mostly I find men can be clingy and tedious. And boring. And I -."

"Make it a point never to be bored."

"Exactly."

He studied that haughty, beautiful face. So amused. But she was serious. Deadly so it seemed. He moved to taste her mouth and she pressed a finger to his lips.

"That's the first rule. No kissing."

He nipped that finger with his teeth. "And what happens if I break the rules?"

"We end things. No arguments. Second chances."

Chris tilted his head, studying her.

"Do you want to hear the rest of the rules?"

A long moment passed before he answered. "I do."

"Ok. Dinner. Tomorrow. Eight thirty."

"I get to buy you dinner?"

"One of the perks." She stepped out of the circle of his arms.

"Let me take you home tonight. I'll scramble eggs and eat them off your ass."

Ada laughed a little bit. "It's lucky for you I find your sophomoric sense of humor amusing. You can take me to Denouche. And we'll go from there."

His date called his name and caught his attention.

Of course he wasn't standing anyone up by hiding and making out with Ada Wong because his date was his sister.

"Ada...wait, stay."

"Sit? Roll over? Fetch?" Amused, she watched him. He looked so pleasantly guileless and flushed. She enjoyed it. So she added, "Bring a clean bill of health with you."

Surprised, he queried, "On a date?"

"On a date with me, yes."

She was the most curious creature he'd ever met.

Claire came into the hallway in a sparkly black dress with her red hair carefully and somehow wonderfully arranged on her head in a glory of curls and corkscrews.

"There you are." And her smile went to frigid."Ada."

"Claire."

Ada smiled slyly. "Mr. Redfield, we'll discuss this more later." And she passed by Claire to disappear back into the red edge, sex filled promise she'd come from.

"What were you doing over here?"

Chris l aughed at the accusatory tone. "Playing Jenga. What do you think we were doing?"

"It's dark back here. The evil bitch belongs in the dark, " Her eyes narrowed, focused, and turned to angry slits. "Why do you smell like her?"

She got closer, sniffed, sniffed again. "Are you kidding me here!?"

"It's none of your business, Claire."

"Damnit, Chris! Are you stupid? Oh all the women in the world. Ada?! Really? She's probably Rosemary's baby!"

"It was a little heavy petting, kid. Chillax."

"You better not be doing anything. Ever. She's not for you. No. EVER! What is it with that bitch? Does she have diamonds in her vag? You men sure chase her like dogs in heat. First Leon sniffing around and now you. What's wrong with the world?"

Chris laughed again as he escorted her back out to the party.

"She's beautiful and we had a nice moment. Don't get your panties in a twist over it."

"She's malicious. And conniving. And…SMART!"

Now that was just insulting.

Lips pursed, Chris glared at her, "You saying I'm too stupid for her?"

Attempting to recover from the mistake, Claire rushed out, "No. I'm saying she's not your type."

"And what type is that?"

"You know.." She waved her hands in circles, "Chesty…and…short…"

"You were going to say dumb."

"Well if the waitress fits…"

Irritated, he turned away from her. "Sometimes you can be a real bitch, Claire."

"I'm just trying to protect you!"

"I don't need protection! What could I possibly need protection from?"

But his sister was already stalking away. He didn't hear her murmur under her breath, "Yourself...you big softie. She's going to eat you alive."

And him? Well he was looking forward to dinner...and the taste of Ada Wong.


	3. Genesis: 3

**A/N:** _We get smutty here. But not like some of my stuff! Somewhat TASTEFUL smutty (do those two words cancel each other out!?)_

* * *

 **Chapter 3: Replication**

* * *

 _"What bred and bled and burned was nurtured. And she hungered, seeking only to burn again."_

* * *

 ** _New York, October_**

They called her the bitch in red.

It was a name that struck different chords with different people. For some, it meant fear. The kind of fear that stole your breath and robbed your brain of any coherent thought save to flee. For others, it spoke of success. For the bitch in red never left a job unfinished.

To Ada Wong, the bitch in red was one more persona. One more face. One more legend left behind. A role she played to perfection. Her real one? There was no real answer to that question without asking others. And she refused to dwell on it.

Her past was as colorful as any. Stained in red, sure, the blood of her enemies and so forth. She'd carved her way from the bowels to the crown of contentment. She didn't think of the girl in the street anymore.

Or so she told herself.

The loft where she lived was one of many. A dozen, if not more, places she stayed when she needed a place to lay her head. This one was a wide open space, industrial in nature, in the trendy meat packing district of Manhattan. It was steel beams and brick with a shiny stainless steel appliance filled kitchen nook that she never touched. There was a bottle of wine and two bottles of water in her fridge and half a container of mostly eaten egg rolls.

Her bed sat up on a dais off to one side with a wall that was no more than a wood sliding door. It was draped in red and black two thousand dollars' worth of pertasi Italian bedding. A white Italian leather sofa sat in what might have been the living area. But it was nothing more than the couch and a desk with her lap top sitting on it.

She plucked her memo cube up from the nightstand beside her bed, rolled it in her palm, and set it back down.

Her bathroom was as steel and glass, mostly made up of her shower and the small vanity and toilet off to one side. No bath. She loved a nice bath. But the loft wasn't really equipped for that kind of thing.

She checked her lipstick and smudged her smoky eye make up expertly. The underwear she was currently wearing was black, lacey, and sexy without being too much.

Her pert and perfect small breasts were lifted, giving them the look of being full and fabulous. She'd learned to maximize on her slight figure a long time ago. The stomach beneath the breasts was taut, lovely, with a suggestion of muscle beneath the pale flesh. Her arms were the same muscled in a sheerly feminine way. Not too much. The goldilocks of muscles.

The legs went on forever. They were her signature. Her long, gorgeous legs got more compliments than anything else. She adjusted the garters attached to the smoke gray thigh highs she was wearing and moved toward her closet to finish dressing.

In fitting with the theme, she chose black. The dress was oriental in style and shiny black silk with red lotus flowers stenciled into the fabric along the neckline and down the thigh high slit to the floor. She had barely settled it onto her lithe form. The neckline was plunging but tasteful. It highlighted the antique choker that she'd chosen with a flashy red ruby as it's focal point.

The heels were scarlet and strappy, showing her perfectly painted toe nails in the same flashy red. She studied herself with a critical eye, approved, and paused when the buzzer sounded from her door man.

She touched the button, "Yes?"

"Ms. Wong – you have a guest."

"Tony, can you describe him for me?"

"Sure. Um…tall, dark hair…big. Not fat. Like…muscled. Not scary big but you know more Ryan Reynolds in Blade then the Scwarzeneggar. I.D. says Redfield."

The benefits of a gay door man. Always a good description.

"Thanks Tony. You can send him up."

"Happy to."

Interesting. They'd planned to meet at the restaurant. Instead he was showing up here. She should have rebuffed him and stuck to the plan but she was curious as to what his intent was.

So she called for him to enter when he knocked.

"Mr. Redfield- we had an agreement."

He was dressed in clothes far too casual for the restaurant they'd been planning to attend. The shirt was collared, a fantastic shade of blue, and the jacket good brown leather. The shirt made his eyes stand out in sharp relief when he took the sunglasses off and tossed them on her kitchen counter. The jeans were old, looked comfy, and were starting to fray at the pockets and legs. The brown boots scuffed and well loved.

He set the paper sack in his hands on the counter.

Really, she mused, he was nothing of her type at all. Where was the class? Where was the polish that she usually enjoyed?

"I forgot something I should have mentioned yesterday."

Ada waited, patiently.

"I hate fancy restaurants."

He moved toward her and slid the jacket off as he did. He tossed it over the back of her white leather couch.

"And if I happen to be hungry?"

His smile was what really did it. It was a little boy smile that took that face up from rugged to handsome. She enjoyed the smile. "I'm planning to feed you."

The blue t-shirt snuggled those big arms of his in the most tantalizing way. There was a graphic of some symbol in red splashed across it. It was familiar but she was having trouble placing it. "What's on your shirt?"

He grinned a little and executed a half shrug, "You grow up in the Stone Age? That's Optimus Prime...from Transformers."

Transformers?

Surely her date for the evening hadn't shown up wearing a Transformers t-shirt.

Ada Wong was many things, some of things were lies, some were skills, some were games. On a given day, she wasn't even really Ada Wong. That was just another ruse...but she was seldom surprised. Surprise came with knowing she was enjoying her time with a man who courted t-shirts with robotic cartoon characters on them.

What was she thinking? What could they possibly have in common?

He shifted to gather things together and his arms bunched. The jeans he wore were old and faded. They snuggled against his ass as he turned and moved through her loft. And they made things low in her body tighten and excite.

Well...they had THAT in common anyway.

The question needed asked here. And she realized she WANTED to ask it. She was going to go ahead with this after all. "You brought the paperwork?"

Amused, Chris gestured with his head, there was a folder lying on the counter. "I have to admit, it's like I'm applying for NASA or something. I've never had a woman want me to bring a clean bill of health with me to a date."

"I told you, I'm not generally casual about my lovers. I don't take chances."

"I can't argue with that. Disease free, Ada. In black and white. As requested."

"Thank you." She liked that he'd been willing to bring proof. It showed he was serious about being her lover. She was enjoying the unpredictability of him. It amused her and intrigued.

"Sure thing, boss. Anything else I should prepare for among those complicated demands of yours?"

"There are benefits to my complicated demands, Mr. Redfield, I assure you."

"I have no doubt. You look fantastic, Ada." He said it so off hand, so bluntly and simply, that she had to smile.

"Thank you. Should I change?"

"You should. As much as I love that dress on you, this meal calls for comfort."

Comfort. She wondered if she owned something that comfortable. It made her smile as she turned and took the steps to her bedroom area. "I'll just be a minute."

"Take your time."

He prepped the kitchen, delighted to find that her pots and pans looked brand new. The stove had that just bought smell that implied it have never even been turned on. Chris assembled his ingredients and set a red sauce on to boil. He diced onions and garlic, pinched out salt and pepper, added carrots and celery. The smell of cooking tomato and parsley filled the air.

In the Redfield house, you learned how to cook or you starved. His parents had been very clear on being self-sufficient. So he could cook and well. He set the bottle of wine he'd brought out to breathe as he prepped the salad makings. He'd had to learn to cook after his parent's death. Someone had to feed Claire and keep them from dying of hunger.

Claire, conversely, was a terrible cook. She burned everything she made. He'd kept them alive after their parents had died. Claire burned water. She was useless. But she could sew and loved folding laundry. So, they'd traded out household duties.

Ada emerged from her bedroom in her version of relaxed. The yoga pants she wore were skin tight and black and the tiny little white shirt with it was a revelation in the greatness of god. She paused, sniffed, and smiled.

"Is that a Bolognese sauce I smell?"

"That's the rumor."

"And here I thought you'd be the corndog and tater tots kind of man."

"Oh I'm that too." He crossed around with a smile. "Sauce should take about an hour to simmer."

"Well it smells fabulous."

"You smell fabulous." He caught her around the waist and drew her to him. She let him, delighted. It was all so very domestic. This was a game she hadn't played before and she was intrigued.

He put his nose to the back of her ear. "What's that perfume you're wearing?"

"No perfume. Just me."

"It's making my mouth water." His mouth tasted her there at the back of her ear. The skin was supple and sweet. He slid his hands under the tiny shirt she wore, skimming them up her back. She felt the press of the wall against her back and sighed with delight.

He lifted her hands above her head and skimmed his fingers down the long and lean line of muscle. Those fingers trailed over her sides and across the smooth plane of her stomach. His mouth nipped gently at her exposed skin, lifting the shirt inches at a time with each nibble and kiss. His hands bracketed her rib cage, thumbs tracing lazy circles on the skin just below the line of her bra.

Her fingers tunneled into his hair as she watched him tease her. The flush of her skin signaled arousal, her breath fell out in excitement pants. His hands skimmed up the outside of her legs now, over the hips, and around to brush the wonderfully perfect beauty of that sculpted ass. With little more then a shift, he lifted her and set her down on the counter.

Ada let him step in between her legs and take her face. He tilted her back to look up at him. She could feel the vibration of him that was a desire to kiss her. She was surprised to find out she was curious how it would be as well. She hadn't kissed a man in years. The last had been Leon in the bowels of that lab in Raccoon City. He'd thought she was dying. So she'd kissed him.

It had been part of the game. Part of the plan. Mostly.

"No second chances huh?"

With a level of regret that surprised her, she smiled. "None."

He didn't kiss her. He tugged her forward instead and his hands roamed up her back again to flip the clasp of her bra with a practiced blind eye. He peeled it off without taking off her shirt which was another point in his favor.

And then his hands expertly palmed her breasts beneath the shirt. She gasped at each tug, each smooth roll, each pluck of his fingers like a maestro on a finely crafted violin. He ducked his head beneath her shirt and added the wonder of his mouth to it and she was lost. She felt the warmth spread from her throat to her head and to her groin.

Her hands went to his the fly of his jeans and the timer for the sauce began to bleat like an annoying slap in the face.

Chris pulled away from her, settling her shirt down on her. "Sauce is ready."

He moved to the stove and moved the sauce off the hot burner to settle. He was tossing the salad when he felt her move up behind him.

"Hungry?"

She grabbed his arm and turned him, pushing him back against the counter. He was grinning down at her. She hadn't intended to take him to bed this soon. Not exactly.

But the timing felt right here.

And she was drawn to him. She rarely put aside her instincts regarding her needs.

"Yes. I'm hungry." Her hands pushed under his t-shirt and pulled it off him in a smooth, fast movement. She used it to bind his hands in place behind his back for just a moment. And her teeth bit fast, hard, and hungry into the meat of his chest. "Fuck the fucking sauce."

Chris laughed, wicked and low. He picked her up under the arm pits and she wrapped her legs around him. "Yeah – fuck the fucking sauce sounds about right."

He carried her out of the kitchen and tossed her back on the bed. She liked the power of his toss. He was effortless with it. Her weight simply didn't matter to him. Strength - another thing she enjoyed about his body.

She bounced and rolled, coming up to pull her shirt off. He followed her down, pulling the snug little pants from her body. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything more beautiful than Ada Wong in tiny lacy black panties. And he'd seen the sunrise over the Mediterranean and witnessed the world from the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. None of it, nothing, was like the sight of her lying there with her arms out stretched to him.

Amusement had her smiling up at him. "What?"

"God damn - you're wonderful."

It was said with such simple truth that she found it might have been the nicest thing anyone had ever said to her.

She started to reach for him again and he slid his hands up her legs, over her hips. It was as if he were sculpting her with his palms.

Curious, she commanded, "Come here."

"Wait. Let me look at you."

The simple denial flattered her endlessly.

This is exactly what she knew he'd be like. This. Not a brute. Not here. No. A lover that was, by turns, smooth and forceful. Just like he was in business.

He pressed his mouth over the beat of her heart and she felt a sliver of panic knife into her. She didn't want that. Not intimacy. His lips shifted and plucked with the same careless pleasure at one breast and her panic slipped away under a tidal wave of desire.

Her skin was pale, nearly translucent, with a tracing of beautiful blue veins beneath the surface. Her nipples peaked and blushed in pretty pink circles. His hands weighed and stroked the delicate spill of her breasts, delighting her. His tongue traced each etch of muscle in her belly and the jut of one perfect hip bone.

The passion of it made her breathless. The tickle of his bearded jaw aroused. He was almost delicate...and it touched and excited.

He leaned up above her, watching her face now as he feathered his fingers over her damp panties. Her eyes blurred, her skin flushed, her lips parted. And Chris breathed, "Beautiful."

Such a powerful man, Ada mused, to make her feel that way with a single word.

They rolled, an endless struggle of lips, tongue, teeth, and hands. She was above, below, on the side. He tasted her, twisted her, tugged at her. On her belly, she shivered as his tongue delved the curve of her spine and his hands stroked her legs while she crested.

He was forceful, in a way she enjoyed, touching her in a way that spoke of possession edged in greed. She liked that. In the bedroom, she liked to occasionally allow her lovers to dominate her. Never to the point that she was without power, because there was a power in submission as well, but enough to show her their need of her. He was incredible.

And she was pleased to have taken him to her bed.

His body enthralled her. He was scarred and strong. The roping muscle of his arms spilled into a dense expanse of chest. He wasn't a boy, not a smooth young thing, so the spill of his chest was softened with enough hair to tantalize her fingers and the questing spill of her tongue. She liked the taste of him, salty and somehow sweet. His nipples were sensitive which pleased her as well.

He let her lave her tongue on his chest as he knelt in the center of her bed. The jeans rode low on his hips, unzipped but clinging, a perfect denim frame to the picture of his body. She teased at the line of hair below his belly button and licked at his hip, drawing his skin between her teeth to sample him.

Chris hissed and speared his fingers into the spill of her hair. She liked that too. The jerk of him felt uncontrollable and excited. She pleased herself by suckling until his skin bloomed with blood and formed a brilliant hickey. Marked.

It thrilled her.

Ada slid up his body and his hands slid down her back to cup the perfection of her ass in that black thong. She nestled in against him, breasts tight to his chest. And he rubbed her there. He rubbed her against his front.

It stole her breath. Her hands clasped his face without prompting and she trembled.

His face shifted, his eyes hooded, and he grinned. Cheshire cat. Devil. It aroused and burned. He breathed, against her mouth, "Like that?"

Ada laughed, richly, darkly. "Don't get cocky, Mr. Redfield. Not yet."

He arched one thick brow and took her hand. His gaze didn't shift. It held. It held hers as he slid her hand down his stomach and into his pants. The move was entirely possessive. It was a little domineering.

She allowed it.

Because she wanted to touch him. And because she liked his aggression here, in the bed, against her body. She liked his dominance enough to embrace the idea of making him her lover without compunction or regret.

Her nails slid over his groin. His breath fell out in a grunt of approval, and her fingers closed around him.

And he was big there too. He was big all over. And that pleased her as well.

She laughed, delighted, and inflamed her greed of him. Her free hand gripped into his hair and held, hard. "I see why you're cocky."

Chris chuckled, managing somehow to look sheepish while still being arrogant.

She played lazily with his body, to both of their pleasure. She wasn't trying to do anything but discover him. The shape and spill and length of him excited her. He was slick and smooth and velvety. She watched his face as she stroked him. He stroked her back, her thighs, her ass - but he held that look while she touched him.

And she loved that. She loved it. He was so forthright. Heart on the sleeve in his feelings played well in the bedroom. The want of her fairly rolled off him. He let her smell, touch, sift and drift through his excitement for her. She coveted that kind of sexual surrender.

A strong man laid bare to her. A forceful but submissive lover when it suited.

She was ready to find out the rest.

As if sensing it, Chris caught her arms and tossed her back on the bed.

Ada bounced, eagerly, and let him slide her panties down her legs. He put one hand on her collarbone as if to hold her down, surprising her with the force of it, and the other slid between her legs. His fingers quested over the slickness of her body, testing. When he found her ready, he stole her breath.

Because he didn't delicately touch her.

No.

He skimmed his thumb up through her dewy folds, stroked the throbbing bud of her excitement, and assaulted her. She gasped, bucking, as he thrust two fingers into her in a rhythm that was merciless and shocking. Her hands flew up and gripped his forearm. One remained there and the other grabbed his face in surprise as he fingered her deep, fast, and fluidly. The heat of her sucked his digits in, slicked, and opened for him. Her body hadn't been quite ready for the invasion but it embraced it, lubricating itself with excitement for each thrust.

The shock of it drove her mouth open on a sharp cry, "Oh god..."

Chris laughed with crude pleasure, watching her face as he touched her.

Ada's thighs opened, inviting his hand to wedge and nestle against the heat of her, and he did so with a possessive shift between her legs. The sound that exited her mouth was a whine of want. His thumb traced her parted lips to feel it.

Ada was surprised that such a crude assault was going to bring her to orgasm. It turned out the flesh craved something different than the soul. His lovemaking was nearly brutal. It wasn't gentle or giving. It was demanding. The man who commanded on the battlefield, did the same in the bedroom.

And his voice did as well as he intoned, low and hard, "Come for me, Ada. I want to see you come for me."

Her body liked the filthy demand of that. Her mouthed opened, her back bowed, and she tightened around his digits with it. Chris' pleasure was evident. She had come on command for him. He was enthralled with her. He knew that. Her body sucked his fingers in to hold them as she gave in, bucking a little with the release of it.

When she was slick and wet and gasping, his hand retreated and his mouth replaced it.

He had his answer: she tasted as good as she looked.

Yes, she thought desperately, he was the right kind of lover after all.

Brutally tender. Harshly greedy. Punishingly perfect.

She'd made the right choice here.

His tongue plunged and pushed her full of pleasure that left her mewling beneath him.

Finally, when she felt like she couldn't take another moment of waiting for him, she pushed his jeans off his body and shoved him to his back. He let her, slick and needy with sweat. Ada straddled him and grabbed his wrists. She rolled his fingers around the headboard and braced him there.

The thrill of that spilled out of his mouth on a sharp, hoarse laugh.

Ada breathed and commanded him now, "Don't touch me. Unless I say so. Say yes."

No hesitance. Acceptance. "Yes."

He expected her to demand a condom. She didn't. And it rocked him in places that made him insane.

She didn't wait. Her hands shifted, her hips lifted, and she impaled herself on him.

She mounted him, her hands questing over his quivering flesh. I want to be inside you, he'd said, and so he was, buried inside her as she took him with her on a furious and fervent ride. She rocked her hips as she moved, a lithe and graceful thing, fluid like a ballerina in her movement above her.

The wet of her nearly blinded him as she sank down and took him.

Ada watched him tighten, felt him echo the roll of her body on him, and he held on. He let her ride and rock and use him.

Yes, a good choice. The right choice.

She was a harsh mistress. She commanded and demanded and denied him the right to touch her. She rose and rode and he worshiped her where he lay beneath her. The wet ride was fragrant, virulent, and auditory. There was music in each slap of skin, each note of completion.

When they were both sweating and desperate, she commanded, "Let go. Take me."

And then he surprised her again. Because he answered the command with a question, "How?"

Her body thrilled and she answered, hoarse, "Hard. Fast."

He did. Just like that.

She shivered. Chris wrapped an arm around her and sat up, pulling her sweaty flesh to his. Without thinking, his mouth turned toward hers. Ada deflected it, shifting her face away. He let the sting of surprised rejection spur him on as he all but threw her onto her back and plowed himself into her.

It wasn't gentle now or sweet; it was almost painfully fast. He smashed his body into her like he was trying to come out the other side. Primal and pure, it stole the breath, sparked the flesh, and fed the beast that raged between them for more.

The orgasm ripped a cry from her throat that he echoed, thrusting twice more as her body seized around him and fell into spasms. Chris gripped her throat, angled her hips, and plowed her belly like he'd plant his seed there and posses her. Brutal indeed.

Ada bowed, bucked, and he punished them both for the want of it. He savagely topped her, supremely took her, and followed her down into the gold edge abyss with a grunt as he pumped her full of his release. It shimmered around them and slipped sweaty and sweet into the skin to release the tension.

Chris collapsed atop her, breathing heavy and hard. "...holy shit…" He panted it, gasping a little.

Ada laughed, the sound muffled by his sweaty shoulder in her face. "A good choice of words...Now I'm ready for the fucking sauce."

He lifted his head and met her gaze. And laughed.

His laughter delighted her. And she had to admit, it was the first time she'd laughed with any man she'd taken to bed. It reinforced what she knew; she'd made the right choice in him as a lover.

And she was excited to see what would happen next.

Neither was willing to notice that they were still sealed together...and making no effort to change it.

* * *

 **POGIBEL, RURAL RUSSIA, OCTOBER**

The rapid thunder of tires over gravel filled the cool Moscow night. The first suggestion of snow was on the chilly air, promising a hard fall for the natives and a brutal winter to follow.

Various people scattered the ground in a semi-circle as the all-terrain vehicle rolled to a stop in front of them. Most of them were obscured by cold weather gear. Only the piercing blue eyes of one could be seen in conjunction with the rest of the ensemble.

A few words in fluent Russian were spared between the driver and the armed man awaiting him. A hand raised and waived the driver through the raggedy steel gate before him. Steely eyed, he rolled the vehicle through the check point.

The other side of the gate was a testament to poverty. It was empty, bereft, and devoid of anything but a few old cans of cola and a distant memory of life. There was no reason, on the surface, for a team of armed men to be standing guard on it. No reason that a tower should stand tall and straight and staffed in the distance. No reason that the door of the one decrepit building inside the steel gates should be standing open and waiting.

From within the building a lab coat emerged. Young, she still had a shine in her eyes that spoke of youth and naiveté. She waived eagerly to the driver to bring the vehicle to a slow stop.

A few other lab coats emerged from the building as the back of the truck opened and boxes were exposed to the night. The boxes were unlabeled, unmarked, and as boring as any generic brown cardboard ever was.

There was no reason for anyone to assume what was inside those boxes was capable of destroying the world. None.

Scientist's began carrying the boxes beyond the open grey door of the building. A brief exchange occurred between driver and scientist. Money traded hands and the driver climbed back into his truck and drove back the way he came.

There really was no reason to assume anything out of the ordinary. It was all very common. It was all very droll. Just a delivery to a building. Just a drop off of chemicals to a lab for experimentation.

Just the beginning…of an outbreak.


	4. Genesis: 4

**Chapter 4: Penetration**

* * *

 _"The pain bred beginning, blessing even as it robbed. She made a soundless plea for the sweet torture to go on forever."_

* * *

 **New York, October**

* * *

In the middle of the night, she watched him sleep. The curl of smoke from her perfect lips highlighted the smooth line of her brow. She made a picture, curled like a cat in her white leather chair, her long legs draped lazily over the arm, her perfect breasts shadowed by the line filtered light obscured by the clouds outside of the wide open doors to her terrace.

The eternal mystery of him would never fail to surprise her. Even now, in repose, with sheets wrapped lazily around one leg and hip, the other left beautifully bare and naked...he was never really resting. It was more like a lion, sleeping but alert, ready to spring to defend or devour. The muscles in his back were fluid where he sprawled on his belly. He was painted with scars in a way that spoke of battle and survival.

He wasn't exactly handsome. There was slant of nose or a spill of jaw that was too masculine for that. The body was above reproach, clearly, all muscle and dedication. She couldn't pinch a single piece of fat on him anywhere. This pleased her as she liked her lover's fit.

She was also wise enough to know that she could play him here, now, and forever. Now that he'd shared her bed, she could rule him. Any woman worth her salt knew how to win a man and control him. Chris Redfield was fascinating, volatile, and emotionally messy...yes. But he could be owned as any man, given the right incentive.

Hadn't she been playing Leon Kennedy for years? And he was light years more clever about the game they were playing.

Redfield wasn't playing any games with her. She wasn't sure how she was sure of that, but she was. He was just here. Just with her. Just enjoying her. She could twist the knife and kill him with careful kindness. She could own him with her passion and her pussy and her playful wit. He simply didn't seem the type to stop her. He was so eagerly open about everything he felt.

She could destroy him and make him her puppet. He was NO Albert Wesker.

She could rule the BSAA through him if she pushed hard enough. He was such a fragile thing. He was searching for something. She could take the advantage here and OWN him.

What was it that held her back from that?

A year ago, the promise of ruling through a figurehead like Chris Redfield would have appealed to her.

But she found she didn't WANT to betray him...and it was an interesting feeling indeed.

She couldn't help but remember the moment she'd decided to turn aside from her own game, just a for a moment, and begin to play his.

* * *

 **Island, Off the Coast of China, June -2013**

* * *

 **One Year Prior...**

The sound of the waves in his ears soothed him. The sweet scent of sand and summer sun, the pleasing aroma the wind in the trees that danced with coconuts, and the promise of a castaway on an island created to give life to literary forays into adventure…these things made the beach on which he lay feel so peaceful, so dreamlike…that he almost forgot why he was there.

He almost forgot why he was alive…and his partner wasn't.

Making a small sound of pain, Chris Redfield opened his eyes to the coastline of some spit of land in the middle of nowhere. The first sound that came from his mouth was a small whine of pain. But it wasn't the pain that comes from having your ass kicked, although that was in there somewhere, it was the pain of knowing what was lost.

How many times was it his fate to survive when he lost everyone around him?

How many times was he meant to the last man standing?

Coughing up water, he rolled to his back to stare up at the cloudless sky above him. A pretty view, no doubt about that, if there was a willing woman jumping on his dick it would be a better moment too. Who was he kidding? The last thing he wanted was a good fuck.

He was already fucked. He'd let the kid die down there. He'd led him first into that goddamn mess in Waiyip and gotten the rest of his unit assassinated out of rage and stupidity…and now this. THIS. The last fucking person to have believed in his useless ass was dead. Obliterated. Blown up after having turned into the very thing they'd been trying to destroy.

For the BSAA, Piers had vowed as he'd pushed him into that pod, I'm doing it for what I believe. You're my Captain. And the world needs Chris Redfield.

Jill, in his ear as she'd pulled him from the clutches of that monster in the Spencer Estate, moments before she'd taken Albert Wesker out the window to save him…the world needs Chris Redfield.

The world needs Chris Redfield.

His fucking heart hurt.

Why?

The world needed a useless drunk?! The world needed a fuck up? A failure? A pathetic mess? What kind of world needed that!?

What kind of world needed a joke? He was a disgrace. A shadow of his former self. A fool. A dumb bastard that couldn't even properly heal his own pain to keep doing that one damn thing he'd promised to do: go down fighting.

But Piers had.

Piers had died fighting for him.

And now he was the last man alive, lying the sand, mourning a boy that had been like a brother…or a son.

The pain of that echoed.

He'd never stopped to think about children. Not in years. Not since Jill had refuted his marriage proposal after Raccoon City and they'd dedicated themselves to the fight. They'd lost each other in the fray of it, the relationship had died a peaceful death, and the fight had taken over as their only real passion.

But children were not something one risked in their line of work.

So the fatherly love he felt for Piers annoyed him.

The kid wasn't young enough to be a son to him anyway. Yeah, he was older. But he wasn't THAT FUCKING OLD. Chris stopped to think about the age difference.

He was kinda afraid he was wrong about that. He was half sure he was TWICE AS OLD as Piers had been. Lord.

It was TIME TO RETIRE.

But he'd made a vow to that kid to keep going.

He had to honor that.

He didn't want to get up off the beach.

A rustle of leaves disturbed his maudlin reflection and Chris rolled without thinking. It was training, skill, and instinct that had him on one knee with his pistol pointed at the face that waited in the tree line for him.

A bird cawed happily somewhere behind her.

But she was DEAD.

The gun went off, the woman dove to avoid it, and he tracked her as she moved.

He shouted, loud and commanding, "You BITCH! I don't know how the hell you survived that fall. I don't care! I'm gonna watch you die choking on your own blood!"

From behind a tree, the soft sound of her voice echoed, "Mr. Redfield – perhaps we should try a different foot to start off on here. I'm Ada Wong."

"I know who the hell you are!"

"No. I'm afraid you don't. You are, I'm sure, acquainted with Carla Radames. She wore my face it seems, but didn't possess my brains. She was a dumb shadow of me, I assure you. And a heartless bitch. I can claim, of course, to be a bitch and often quite heartless…but I'm not responsible for her actions any more than you are."

Chris rose to his feet, considering. She was still behind the tree. It would be easy enough to kill her the moment she emerged. But she hadn't offered him violence.

In fact, she'd stood there looking at him before he'd shot with her hands UP. She'd been showing herself unarmed.

Chris, breathing hard and slow, inquired, "I'm just supposed to trust you?"

"Of course not. But you did see her die, correct? Unfortunately, she didn't. Her body simply transformed. I covered you to be sure you escaped, for which you're welcome."

He said nothing.

Ada continued, "But I made sure doubly sure she was eradicated before I torched the ship and the lab and the lies she'd brought with her. I'm afraid I stole your revenge, but I'll make my mea culpas by saying I deserved a bit of revenge myself…she did, after all, steal my identity and make quite a mess in my name."

Chris waited, breathing in and out. It would be easy enough to validate what she was saying. So, he lowered the gun and called back, "Come out. I won't shoot you."

"Very considerate of you." The tone was mocking. It was a little amused. It was dry and sarcastic.

The moment her face appeared, he wanted to blow her away.

That goddamn face of hers had haunted him for so long. The betrayal. The rage. It stole his breath. He dropped the gun into the sand to be sure he wouldn't shoot her without meaning to.

Ada approached him, carefully. She wore red; a smooth red shirt, a pair of clinging leather pants. There was something different about her then the woman who'd died on that ship. What was it?

Ada answered the question for him. "If Carla had really been me, Mr. Redfield, she wouldn't have gotten caught."

The second the gun hit the sand, she moved closer to him. She had something in her hand. He backed up and she stopped, tilting her head.

"It's gauze. You're bleeding."

She held out the gauze and he took it, watching her like a hawk. She remained motionless, harmless, if a snake in the grass could be harmless.

He pressed the gauze above his right eye, stopping the bleeding there.

Ada mused, "You can contact anyone you want to verify. But Simmons is done. Birkin and Muller were retrieved. Leon Kennedy and his partner are safe. The world is right again."

Chris laughed, harshly. "Yeah? My partner is dead. My team died in China chasing your doppelganger. Right again? I'd say the world is shit, lady. No question about that."

Ada smirked a little, amused. "So it would seem. Although I think you don't give your partner any credit."

Chris felt his chest hitch, hard. "What are you talking about?"

"I came upon him before the lab exploded. He was mostly dead, yes, and the virus effects may not be reversible…but he's alive. I managed to get him onto the escape pod that remained before the final explosion."

Chris felt the thunder of his pulse in his ears, "He's alive?"

"He's alive. And currently enroute to a hospital in Beijing with a contingent of your men."

Their gazes held in the sunny heat. She told him an impossible story. It started in Tall Oaks. It ended in Lanshiang. And finished on this beach.

Would he ever be able to look at her and not see the horrible woman that had once held her face?

She'd saved Piers. She'd come here to save him. She'd saved Leon Kennedy. She'd finished the woman who'd killed in her name and ruined her reputation. She'd taken care of Simmons. She was a bad guy…? Was she?

Did a bad guy save the day?

Chris queried, quietly, "What do you want from me?"

Ada studied him, curious about the hatred still flickering around him. For her? Or himself? "Nothing. Save that you clear my name and free me from the shackles of her stupidity. My reputation is worth dying for."

Curious, he watched her eyes. "You're a spy, Ada. What kind of reputation do you think you have?"

"Maybe I'm underhanded, Mr. Redfield. But I'm not without conscience. I don't kill for sport. I don't kill at all if I can avoid it. And I don't serve Albert Wesker, his son, or his purpose…I never did. I played his game. But I did it for my own reasons. And I don't hurt people around me that don't deserve it. Not if I can avoid it. A spy I might be, yes, but not a killer. I won't let the world see me like that. That bitch doesn't get to die and take my reputation with her. I've worked too hard to make a name for myself in the right circles, I won't see that destroyed because Simmons had a crush."

They remained facing each other in the salty sea air.

Finally, he remarked, "Who do you work for, Ada?"

With a small laugh, Ada shrugged a shoulder, "Whomever I want. Currently? I'm freelance."

The gauze was soaked through. The blood spilled into his eye and had him cursing a little. He went very still when her hands touched his face and wiped at his skin.

He let her, watching her controlled expression.

And his voice said, "I want you to come work for me."

Amused, Ada released his face. He pressed the fresh gauze to his weeping head laceration. They held gazes, one amused, one dead serious.

Finally, Ada drawled, "I don't think that would be a good fit, Mr. Redfield. Your face says you hate me."

"….not you. Not you." He turned, sighing. "Not you."

"Yes. Not me. But me." She waited, watching the struggle on him. A big man, she mused, and often touted amongst their world as a handful of things: dedicated, resourceful, skilled, professional. And lately? A mess. A disgrace.

She found herself intrigued that he would offer.

It surely cost him something to offer to work with a woman he clearly despised. Again, not HER, not exactly. But her face. He was a fascinating thing, to be sure.

Ada mused, "Convince me."

Chris turned, meeting her eyes, "What?"

"Convince me. They say you are a ruthless force. Convince me. Why should I work for you?"

There were a lot of things he could have said. A thousand. A million. A gazillion ways he could have won her.

He went for the jugular with a single phrase and defeated her where she stood. "Because I'm not Albert Wesker. And I may be the only person on Earth who hated him more than you."

Ruthless indeed. And maybe a mess, Ada mused, but also a man. Just a man, trying to make a difference. She didn't care about altruism, not on a given day, not usually…but she cared about dedication. And he was dedicated to what he did.

So she was interested to find she respected him.

And at the end of the day? The enemy of her enemy was her friend. Working WITH Chris Redfield would afford her opportunities that working behind the scenes didn't. Business wise, it was a good move to work beside him. It would allow her to move in legitimate circles without fear of exposure or censure. It would grant her the ability to keep the US Government at bay about her dealings. She wasn't opposed to dealing her cards in the dark, but playing them in the open was so much better. It meant she didn't have to watch her ass quite as diligently.

Ada finally answered him, quietly, "I accept…on a conditional basis and under the guiding premise that I may, without notice, quit being your ally."

Chris laughed now. The first laugh he'd had in so long. He just laughed and felt a little better. "Agreed. You saved Piers, Ada. And me. And by extension, my company. With the exception of murdering a bus load of school kids, I can't think of anything I won't let you do at your own behest and of your own free will here. I'm a fucking mess, Ada, but I'm a good man to work for I promise you that."

"With."

His gaze turned form the horizon to her face.

She said it again, quietly, "With, Mr. Redfield. A good man to work – with."

And so it began, the start of a very interesting partnership.

* * *

 **New York, August -2013**

* * *

The sounds of rage spilled up and down the narrow hallway. It chased a crying girl from the room in a clatter of breaking furniture and curse words so filthy they singed the ears.

Curious, Claire Redfield watched the fleeing girl in the maroon scrubs with interest.

She'd come to see the recovering partner that had helped her brother survive beneath the ocean. She'd felt like it was something a good sister did. She knew Chris came to visit twice a week when his schedule allowed. She knew the partner, Piers Nivans, was progressing through his rehabilitation well and often tried harder on days when Chris would visit.

She knew, also, that he was resistant to suggestions about leaving the facility. His deformity prevented him from being willing to look in mirrors or brave the world beyond the hospital. He needed a firm hand to guide him.

He needed a Redfield kick in the ass.

Chris was babying him. It was the wrong tactic.

So sometimes it took a woman to do a man's job.

She eased open the door to the physical therapy gym. The place was wreck. Nivans had through balls and broken shelves with weights. He'd kicked over a row of benches and was currently trying to over turn the therapy pool.

To stop him, Claire mused loudly, "Wanna tell me what good it would do to flood the gym?"

He stopped, panting hard, and turned to face her.

It was worse than they'd let on.

They'd reffered to his form as traumatized.

He wasn't. He was worse. He was a fucking mess.

His bio picture had shown a man so handsome that he was nearly painfully pretty; young, eager, and beautiful in that way that reminded her of Leon when he was young. Piers had that sharp intelligence and careless good nature that made his gorgeous face shine. It was nowhere on the defeated man before her.

The body was still in excellent shape. He was tall, muscled, and mostly naked save for the pants he wore low on his hips. But the damage from the virus that had ravaged unchecked through his body was obvious. The arm that had converted was still covered in scales and scars. The hand at the end of the arm was weak, they said, and couldn't even hold a cup. He had it curled up and under as it were hurting.

From the wrist to the elbow, the skin was ravaged in scars and shiny webbed scales like a fish. It tracked across his upper chest and collarbone, ending in an almost pretty lacy web of marks on his neck. All of that marked him as a warrior. It wasn't so bad.

Not really.

The face was bad.

It was really bad.

He was half model beautiful, half melted nightmare.

His face was almost running candle wax on one side. The pretty eye on the good side of his face was mirrored by a red veined, filmy, angry brother in the ruined one. There was blood circling the iris that told the story of intense trauma to the face. It looked like someone had dripped oil down just one side of that lovely expression.

The skin was boiled, red, inflamed and puckered. The lips curled a little from the scarring, showing a nice set of white teeth beyond. Claire eyed him without a single thing on her face.

No pity. No sorrow. Nothing.

Although she felt both.

But neither would help him now.

Instead, she walked into the room. "I'd heard you a good patient, even friendly. Not seeing the good part here. You wanna talk about what's making you so mad?"

Piers snorted and spun away. "Like you care? I don't need some little nurse coming in here to stop me. Go away and leave me alone."

Claire stuck a hand on her hip, watching him. "Not a nurse, thank god for that, as I don't do well wiping asses. And I don't do well wiping boogers off boohoo babies either. What are you sniveling about in here? You're alive, aren't you? You'd rather be dead than fucked up? That's just stupid."

Piers spun back now and the rage on his face was legion. She liked it. It showed he wasn't completely lost. The rage was GOOD. The rage was ALIVE.

"Who the fuck do you think you are, lady!? I ask your opinion on my problems? Get the hell out of here!"

"Turns out your problems are kinda mine too, angry guy. Since you're in them because of my brother."

He stopped and turned back, panting, face dawning now from rage to horror.

"Oh yeah. That's right. I'm Claire Redfield. Chris' sister."

Piers made a small sound of regret. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I didn't know. Just…don't tell him ok? Don't tell him about this."

Interesting.

Why was he afraid of that?

Claire moved to help him as he went to start straightening the gym. "Ok. You want to tell me why it matters so much that I don't?"

Piers shook his head, using his good hand to right the fallen shelf. She noticed he kept the bad one pressed to his chest. "I don't want him to blame himself. It's not his fault. Any of it. I know he comes by out of guilt. I know he hangs around out of loyalty or misplaced regret…or something. I just…I don't want him to think I'm struggling. It will make it worse for him."

Claire felt something shift in her chest a little. He'd died trying to save his Captain. The eager puppy he'd been had followed Chris like a little brother to a hero. He'd sacrificed himself…and survived. And now his hero was coming to sit by his bedside and make him feel like his sacrifice had been for nothing.

He felt like Chris was visiting him out of guilt.

It broke her heart to know it.

He didn't know Chris at all. Guilt wasn't his motivator here. Loyalty? Yeah. It was loyalty. But if he was coming to visit this kid twice a week unprompted, it was also devotion. And love.

Love.

And not the kind that had pity behind it.

How to explain to the kid the level of love in Chris Redfield?

Claire mused, quietly, "When my parents died, I couldn't get out of bed for three days. Chris was barely grown himself. A baby really, looking back on it, young and scared. He didn't get to grieve because I stole that from him. I fell apart, badly, and he had to put me back to gether. Sometimes…"

She sat down beside Piers on the bench they righted together. He was watching her now, so quietly, "Sometimes he had to put me in the shower when I'd be too drunk to do it myself. I started drinking really bad after they died. And I was bad about it. I was twelve, angry, and looking for somebody to blame. Chris was eighteen and fighting so hard to keep me when DFS wanted to put me in a home…"

She shifted, remembering, "I stole booze from gas stations. I robbed my friend's parent's fridges. I started getting hammered nightly. If DFS found out, I knew I was done. They'd take me from Chris. He never…he didn't push me. He just kept picking me up. One night…I came in so wasted, throwing up and crying. He held my hair and cleaned me up off the floor. He put me to bed. And he could have yelled. He could have smacked me or let DFS take me, god knew I deserved it. I was a fucking mess. My parent's, wherever they were, were ashamed of me."

Claire shifted to meet his gaze now. Piers held it, unflagging. She liked the interest on his face. It was engaging. And there was no pity. Just understanding.

Claire intoned, "He didn't do any of those things, Piers. He cleaned me up, got me dressed, and put his arm around me. I struggled, afraid of that kind of comfort, and he just kept holding on. He didn't let go. Even when I started sobbing and shaking. He kept on holding on. Humming this song my mother sang to us when we were little and scared. He kept holding on."

She shifted, feeling the spark of tears in the memory of it. In one hand, a good memory. It had been the moment they'd bonded together. The age difference had been hard for them growing up. Chris had always been kind of a disaster. A trouble maker, arrogant and rude and disrespectful. She'd been a good girl to counteract his legacy of making a mess.

When their parents had died, he'd stepped up and became the best thing in the world to her. The bond had shifted, grown, and clung. They were now inextricably linked, more than brother and sister, he'd finished raising her. He'd paid for her college, bought her the first box of tampons she'd ever needed, held her when the first boy she'd ever loved had dumped her. He'd come across the world to save her, she'd run into Raccoon City to save him.

He was her brother, her best friend, her hero. She understood Piers feelings about him. The worship, the love, the need to earn his affection and his respect. She was still doing it. All these years later, she was still trying to atone for being a fucking asshole after their parents had died.

And she finished her statement to the boy that needed hope now, like she'd needed hope all those years ago….and found it in her brother. "He sticks, Piers. When he loves you? He sticks."

Piers shifted a little, red faced now with embarrassment.

Claire touched his arm and stole his breath. He tried to find any kind of pity on her face and saw nothing but kindness. He noted that they had the same eyes. Her and his Captain? The same eyes.

And the same kindness in both sets.

Claire avowed, softly, "You saved his life. And now he comes to sit beside you while you're healing. Maybe it's not perfect…but it's love, Piers. It's love. The kind that comes from a man who never asked me for a damn thing after my parent's died. Not a damn thing. And kept right on holding on even when I couldn't."

Piers felt something in his throat that scared him. He felt the squeeze of a single tear from his ruined eye and wanted to panic. But she was so calm. So calm.

And then she whispered, "It's ok. It's OK. Feel it. That's how this gets better. It's how you get better…and how you give that love back to him without him ever really knowing."

The small sob cleared his throat and made her lean a little closer. His hand lifted and laid over hers…his bad one. And it touched her to feel it.

They sat together while he wept, softly, so softly, and silently shared the love of the man who'd saved both their lives…and never let go.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Maturation**

* * *

 _"Gasping, grasping, guileless and lost – she plummeted. And reveled in each helpless breath."_

* * *

 **New York, November**

The mountains of paperwork that came with a failed field operation were endless. Chris figured, dejectedly, he'd be sitting at his desk until he was old and gray and wizened. He glanced up from his desk to see his reflection in the window across from him.

So maybe he was already old and gray…a little. But he wasn't wizened. Not yet anyway. Maybe he was a little wrinkly. But he'd earned every one of them. He was forty fucking years old…what was he supposed to look like?

The scattering of pictures on his desk answered that question.

Leon Kennedy's perfect face stared up at him from eight different angles. Apparently, the failed mission operative felt the need to snap selfies with the director of the DSO instead of taking pictures of the mess she'd made. Kennedy was what? Five years younger than him? And yet the fucking guy looked the same as he had the first time they'd met after Rockfort Island. Good genes, better grooming, and the right kind of luck apparently.

Leon Kennedy didn't look old.

Chris turned his eyes to the other person in the photos. Ada.

Ada and Kennedy standing side by side against the backdrop of the mess of an outbreak gone wrong in Bangladesh. Ada – looking perfect and unruffled and lovely and timeless. And Kennedy looking like a million bucks in designer boots.

Annoyed, Chris shoved the photos aside.

The little niggle of jealousy surprised him. He wasn't a man given to it. And he wasn't even sure that anything was happening there between them anyway. The rumors suggested they'd been dancing for over a decade, sure. But rumors also said that Albert Wesker had been sleeping with her too.

So, the rumors weren't always true.

He wasn't sure about Kennedy. Leon was a ladies man. He was known to throw it down and leave them happy. Chris wasn't 100% sure that he and Ada hadn't been sleeping together. But he was sure about Wesker.

She'd never outright said they weren't but something in him was sure of it. Wesker was a lot of things, but he didn't diddle those he considered his "underlings" and he didn't stick it to his co-workers either. Excella Gionne had tried and failed. And Chris knew Jill hadn't been touched by him that way either the whole time she'd been in his control. Wesker didn't fuck the help. Ada didn't usually either, so he knew it was a step way outside of her comfort zone that she was currently sleeping with Chris at all.

But he didn't like the jealousy about Kennedy. He didn't like jealousy at all. It was a stupid, baseless, emotion. But there it was anyway.

There was a brief little knock on the door and his gaze turned to see his sister in the doorway.

She had on a little camel hair colored coat and a sloppy red ponytail and carried a pie in one hand. She grinned a little. "You realize it's Thanksgiving, big guy?"

Nope.

He'd forgotten.

Amused, Chris shrugged a little. "Guilty. Forgot. You bring me pie?"

"Looks that way." She stepped into the office and laid the pie on his desk. "It's a bribe."

Laughing, he leaned back in his chair to look at her.

She liked the look of him in this office. He reminded her of their Dad. The half suit he wore was flattering. It was navy slacks and a baby blue shirt rolled up his forearms and missing the tie. The jacket was carelessly tossed over the back of his chair. It made his eyes kind of startlingly blue in the setting sun beyond the wall of windows behind him.

Yeah, Claire mused, just like their Dad. It was insane how much he was the twin of their patriarch. The red hair she claimed came from him too but Chris had their mother's dark Hungarian looks.

If you took their father's face and threw their mother's hair and eyes on it, you had Chris. It was crazy. But most days? It was also comforting.

"What's the bribe, kid? You kill somebody and need an alibi?"

Claire chuckled and perched a hip on the desk. "Nope. I'm taking an impromptu Turkey Day dinner up to Piers at the hospital. I hoped I could snag you as my partner in crime."

No hesitation, he just said, "You bet. I was thinking of doing that anyway. Of course, I was gonna bring him a bucket of KFC."

Claire kept her face deadpan, "Christopher….it's Thanksgiving. You can't bring the guy fried chicken. TURKEY. Not chicken."

"C-Bear. It's all white meat. What dif?"

"It's Thanksgiving, Christopher. You can't bring the guy a bucket of lard and clogged arteries.."

"Why? Is that foul? Is it foul to bring the wrong fowl?"

Claire kept her face droll.

Chris grinned a little and waited for her to crack.

It didn't take long.

She snorted and rolled her eyes, chuckled, and rose to her feet. "You are dumb."

"You love me."

"Looks that way." Claire shifted a little, "Don't take this wrong but you seem better. You're joking again. You're going out more. I actually swear I saw you at the Opera last week but I must have been NUTS because there's NO WAY you'd go to the Opera."

Amused, Chris rose from his desk and grabbed his jacket. He picked up the pie and followed her toward the door. "I'm fine, kid, really. And I was at the opera, thank you very much. I get the impression you're saying I don't have any class."

"You have plenty of class," They moved toward the elevators together, "It just usually finds you at a Yankees game instead of in a monkey suit watching fat guys sing arias."

"I'm doing this new thing where I go outside my comfort zone and see if I like it."

They elevator chugged happily. Claire liked his face, true, and she really liked the peace on it. He looked…happy. And he hadn't looked happy in a long time.

"How's that workin out for ya?"

"Great." He shifted.

Claire waited.

The silence pulled.

And he admitted, sheepishly, "Opera sucks."

Now she laughed, happily, and bumped his hip with hers. "Yep. Sucks shit. I'm not sure why I went. My date was nice enough. But it's not my thing."

"What about the date? Was he your thing?"

Amused, they crossed the lobby together. Claire remarked, "Nope. Handsome enough. Charming. Makes plenty of money. A doctor. George Hamilton? He was the Chief of Surgery at Raccoon Gen back in the day."

Chris stopped and blinked at her. She realized he'd stopped and turned back. "What?"

"Claire…he's like fifty."

Claire shrugged, laughing with delight, "Soooo? Your point here is what? It was a date, Christopher, not a wedding. He's handsome. He asked. His wife passed a few years ago and he's lonely. So am I, in case you missed the memo. I haven't been out with anybody since Neil. I thought it was a good time to take a chance."

Shaking his head, they moved to climb into the back of the town car she had waiting for them. Settling in, Chris studied her in the low light from the window, "You never said you were lonely."

Claire turned her gaze to his face. They smiled gently at each other.

And she answered, "You've been struggling so much…didn't seem fair to throw my problems on top of that. I can deal with loneliness, Chris. I'm ok."

He lifted his arm and she slid against him, putting her head on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry I left you alone, C-Bear. You should have told me. I would have fixed it."

Touched, she laughed a little, "Oh yeah? Gonna build me the perfect man, are you? Maybe you could punch a guy into loving me?"

Chris chortled, kissing her forehead. "I would do it, kid. You know that. You saying no one's caught your interest since Neil?"

Claire shifted, watching the road outside the window whiz by. Someone had, she mused, but it would be hard to explain the why of it to her brother. And it didn't matter anyway…because he wasn't looking back at her anyway. He was so wrapped up in his own misery, he wasn't looking anywhere but at his regret.

She did seem to have a thing for the underdog, for the broken, for the lost, for the nuts. First, there was Steve….poor stupid Steve who'd died so tragically trying to save her. Then there was a series of stupid one night stands and mistakes when she'd had no time to find something real.

There'd been half a shot at something good with Kevin Ryman but she'd blown that by getting scared of her feelings for him and pulling away. She'd left him standing in the airport with two tickets to Spain and three hundred dollars in flight cancelation fees. It was one of her great regrets.

She'd had a horribly brief flirtation with Frederic Downing, who, it seemed, was also a megalomaniacal monster. After getting his ass incarcerated for treason, she'd taken a brief look at her choice in men and panicked a little.

So, she'd been celibate for a while before having a brief affair with a perfectly nice accountant at TerraSave. That had ended with a marriage proposal and her having to decline, politely, and explain she wasn't in love with him. She kept waiting for lightning to strike and to get swept away…instead, she kept getting lost in the emptiness of the wrong relationships.

She'd met Neil and been attracted. They'd had a good run. He was funny and friendly and engaging in bed. And he'd been playing her the whole time. His betrayal had hurt so badly that she'd ENJOYED killing him. The first time she'd ever enjoyed killing. She'd felt JOY the moment he'd died.

And it scared her to death.

She'd gone running away from that like a house on fire and nearly fucked up her friendship with Leon by trying to get him in bed with her in a drunken haze of regret. She'd found him in a bar in Croatia. He'd been a fucking mess himself after a nightmare in the Eastern Slav Republic.

They'd drank too much. They'd leaned on each other.

They'd done it a thousand times before.

They'd hugged.

And her? She'd started groping.

Why not? Her mind had told her. Maybe this is it. Maybe THIS is it. You've been overlooking him all these years. Maybe he's the one. Maybe that's why you can't be happy with anyone else. Maybe it's meant to be Leon Kennedy!

So, she'd pushed her way into the little bathroom in that bar and put her hands all over her best friend. They were both so drunk that, at first, it had been hotter than all holy hell. Leon lived up to his reputation.

He'd pushed her into the wall, put his hands in her pants, and had her screaming and bucking and coming. Both of their heads had been spinning and swirling and their bodies liked it. They liked the groping and sucking and gasping.

Surprisingly, he'd been the one to stop.

He'd had her thrown over the sink on her belly and was going to town on getting her pants off and he'd stopped. She'd looked up, caught his heavy-lidded gaze in the mirror, and seen the moment he retreated. He'd let her go, stumbling a little.

And he'd said, "…shit. SHIT. Claire…this is nuts."

She'd turned and staggered, head SWIRLING, and her hands were all over him again. He was actually retreating from her. He'd tucked her hands against her belly and warned, "Whoa girl. Whoa. What's happening here?"

In her drunken anger, she'd slurred, "It's fucking, Kennedy. You need an instruction manual or something? Take your pants off and fuck me."

He'd kept holding her still against the wall, "You don't want to fuck me, Claire. You're just mad. We both are. Jesus. I'm so fucking drunk. I don't even know what the hell is going on here. Do you?"

"Does it matter? Don't be a faggot. What kinda guy turns down a willing chic? You gay? Or what? Shut up and give it to me."

She might have lost him then. She might have. She was so mean. Such a bitch. Even her drunken brain knew she was a bitch.

But he'd just laughed.

He'd laughed and drug her into him to hold her.

And she'd clung, shaking.

And he'd said, "I'll give it to you, you firey thing, I'll give it to you."

Not the sex, no, the hugging. That's what they both needed. The hugging. The moment he hugged her, she knew it. It was what he was to her. Her best friend. She needed the hugging.

So they'd stood in that bathroom and hugged.

And then? She'd barfed all over him.

And because he was her best friend, he didn't even get mad about it.

But she'd nearly lost him being stupid.

So, in her run of bad boy choices, there was the newest one: Piers Nivans. The possibly resurrected, potentially still infected, emotionally destructive, physically deconstructed mess of a former protégé to her brother. He was all kinds of wrong for her.

For one, he was like eight years younger than her. Which…wasn't a big deal, exactly, but it meant he was ten when she graduated high school. So that…was kinda shitty. It was also a double standard because it shouldn't matter at all. And if Chris was sniffing around a girl eight years his junior, nobody would even give a shit.

She was a cougar.

It was pretty amusing.

They were greeted by the happy staff at the Rehab Hospital. Piers had been here for so long that he was basically indoctrinated as part of the building. He was able to leave. He'd been cleared for months now.

Claire had just recently gotten him to even leave the building.

They took walks around the campus. They had lunch together. They went down to the pond and lingered. They talked and worked on his physical therapy.

But he'd only left the premises ONCE and he'd stayed in the car while she'd gone to the store alone to get something.

He'd gotten out of the car to walk with her on the trail she'd chosen for them. But she'd been careful to be very VERY aware of any other people. It broke her heart.

The year that had passed since he'd been back had been kind to him.

He was still recovering emotionally, it was true, but physically he was at the top of his game. He had full control of his hand again and the virus in his blood had actually given him an innate ability to turn the lights on and off without trying. He seemed to have retained some preternatural control on electricity. It was fascinating to watch him generate lightning from his fingertips like an X-Man or something.

It was the face; she knew that it was entirely his face. It wouldn't get any better. The last consult with a plastic surgeon had confirmed that there was nothing else they could do for him. The last two grafts hadn't taken and he was still badly scarred.

It was better, some, than when he'd first come back. A series of procedures had restored the vision and the beauty of his hazel eyes. They'd taken a good portion of the scarring from his jaw to his nose and smoothed it out. But the eye and the forehead were still badly marked.

Honestly? It had never mattered to her. Ever. He was beautiful. She kept telling him that and meeting with his derision. He couldn't get past the fear of her pity.

There was no pity.

None.

But he didn't believe her.

She wasn't sure how to get through to him. He was so worried about scaring people. He was ashamed of his face. He called himself a monster.

He was happy to see them. They had turkey. They had pie.

He laughed.

They went for a walk in the warm sunshine. It was a cool day, bordering on the evening; the sun was a metallic glow of gold and orange. The grounds were turning brown as they headed toward winter.

Piers wore gray sweats with the sleeves pushed up his arms. Claire held his hand as they walked. The gesture wasn't lost on her brother.

And he wasn't sure how he felt about it.

He wanted her happy. He wasn't sure Piers the right choice for that. The kid was a mess. Worse than that, he was a basket case.

Lips pursed in thought, Chris tailed them as they walked toward the pond.

Piers was saying something to make her laugh. And that helped a little.

Whatever else was true, he cared about her. That was written all over his ravaged face. Would it be enough to keep him from slipping into a depression so deep and wide it killed them both?

There was no telling.

Some kids in the recovery ward were outside playing. The sun was high, it was a good day…and then Piers saw the kids. He froze. He panicked.

He ducked behind her. He cowered a little. He whispered, "Let's go back, Claire. Hurry. Before they see me."

Claire felt the shiver of anger and sympathy. She glanced over her shoulder at her brother. Her expression was so grief stricken. It was asking for what?

Help. And he knew how to give it to her.

Piers started to turn back and Chris grabbed his arm at the elbow. They locked eyes in the dying sun. Piers looked like he'd bolt if given the chance. He begged, softly, "Please, Captain. I can't."

"You're not a coward." Chris spoke coolly, holding that panicked gaze, "Stop being an idiot."

The children playing in the sun looked up as he escorted Piers over to them.

The moment they were close, Piers' whole body, previously contorted in fear and panic, relaxed.

They were kids from the burn unit. They were scarred and missing hair and one only had use of her left hand. The other was mangled and in a cast.

The difference?

The kids were laughing in the sun.

Not cowering.

Chris let go of his arm.

Piers knelt and started talking. The kids gathered around him to listen and laugh.

Chris felt Claire step up beside him. Her hand slid down his arm and gripped, palm to palm. She breathed, softly, "…thank you."

And she sounded choked up. He kissed her temple.

Chris didn't look at her.

If he did, he was afraid they'd both cry. Instead, they watched Piers Nivans play with children in the sun. And, for a brief moment, everything was ok.

He asked, quietly, "Are you in love with him?"

And her answer was soft and earnest, "I think so. How could I not be? He saved your life. He loves you enough to protect you. Maybe that's always been the thing that's missing, ya know? Maybe it needed to be somebody that loves you as much as I do."

Yeah, he thought, if they looked at each other – they were both going to cry.

So to avoid that, Chris laughed a little and teased her, "That's pretty fucking sappy, C-Bear. They're gonna take away your BITCHES WITH BALLS OF STEEL card for saying it."

Claire pinched his side and got a yelp from him for it. "You are a gross misogynist Chris Redfield. And I am ashamed you are my brother."

But she laughed anyway and held on to him while they watched Pier Nivans emerge, just a little more, from the shell of what he'd been.

* * *

 **New York, November**

Leaning on his balcony, elbows akimbo, Chris Redfield tried to see the flickering lights of the New York skyline amongst the rapidly surging swell of clouds. The twinkle of bright spots was a bit like bombs over Raccoon City on the morning of its destruction or the sanitation of Valkoinen Mokki...or the suggestion of something less depressing and more beautiful. Perhaps it was the twinkle of lights on a Christmas tree in Times Square or a pretty suggestion of a constellation high in the velvety richness of space.

Amused with his prose, he thought about his sister and her interest in Piers Nivans. The protective brother in him wanted to steer her away. Piers was a good kid but the nurturing side of Claire would try too hard to fix him and he'd end up sucking her dry if he continued to digress. What they'd seen today was hope, true, but Piers had taken a year to come this far. How long would it take before he'd leave that god forsaken shit hospital and get on with his life? Claire would range herself beside him and be sucked into his misery. Chris could hardly abide the idea of it.

"Are the answers to the universe in the dark, Chris Redfield?"

Surprised, he turned. And it was a rare thing to find him caught off guard.

The pleasure of seeing her welded to the annoyance of knowing she'd penetrated his various levels of security without batting an eye to reach his inner sanctum. The BSAA building at night was a fortress. But here she stood, unfazed, in a swirling red duster that looked like good leather and holding a tiny plate in one long-fingered hand. The humor of it spilled out of his mouth with a sharp laugh.

Because the plate had tater tots and a corndog beneath a veil of sheer plastic wrap.

"The Redfield family special?" She teased and twirled the plate a little with a saucy little smile.

The shoes were silk, stones, and sin with straps and ice pick heels. Her legs looked twelve feet long in them.

His mouth watered and it had nothing to do with the tots.

For Ada, it was a curious feeling to see him here. In the moonlight, his chest was a marvel of modern masculinity. It was framed by the dress shirt left carelessly open and the slacks left temptingly unbuttoned. His bare feet were adorable and made a lie of the rest of what had once been a respectable business suit.

She'd been gone for days on assignment and come back to find her machine empty, her voicemail vacant, her cell phone without a text and her email void. A fascinating thing since they'd rarely gone a day without communicating since they'd begun their little affair. The shift of power had happened somewhere here. And she found herself amused and a little unnerved by it.

She couldn't let him think it was all his. That was not how she did business. It wasn't how she did relationships. And it wasn't how she left things. She was the bitch in red. She left no job unfinished and no man in control.

He mused, "I have half a pumpkin pie in the kitchen that Claire let me take home with me. Care to indulge in a slice?"

He was leaning in reverse now on the railing of the balcony. The cold air tickled his chest and left his nipples turgid and excited. She wanted to put her mouth to him and sample. And so she set the plate she carried down on the table beside her and said, "Not exactly what I'm hungry for."

"No?"

"No."

"It's Thanksgiving, Ada. What are you thankful for?"

She tilted her head, studying him. His face was so very alight with amusement. It was time to take command of him again.

Her hands shifted and untied her coat. She pursed her lips on a cat-like smile. "Winning." And she opened the coat.

The teddy and garters she wore were red and black, red and black, red and sex. She was pale skin and torture, lace and silk and satiny temptation. She was a mouth-watering thing that roared into his blood and left him light-headed.

The cold air fanned out of her mouth in a smooth white cloud, he shifted toward her, and her laugh of delight tinkled musically around them.

His arm hooked under her coat and around her narrow waist, he lifted her against him and brought her mouth open with a gasp of need, and turned her toward the railing. She let him set her on it, opened her legs to allow him between, and watched the dense crown of his hair as he savored the flavor of her collarbone and put his teeth to her waiting nipple beneath the cup of the silky teddy.

Ada's breath fell out on a sigh, her fingers gripped the banister beside her hips to hold on, and she let him devour the taste of her while her body was inches from plummeting off the tower to her agonizing death below them. This high, there was nothing but them and the night. It spilled around them in a dark embrace, offering a perfect backdrop to the sinful delight of doing something nefarious and just a little naughty in their place of work.

His breath was warm on her ear, "Did you come to feed me, Ada?"

And her musical laugh put fire in his blood for her, "Yes. I'll come...and feed you."

Lord.

His hands slid her panties away. His palms parted her thighs. The garter, red, red and wanton. Red and wicked. It framed the delight of her body as he knelt in the cold and put his mouth to her.

There was power here that was undeniable Ada thought, desperately surging against the skill of his tongue inside her. Power. The most powerful man in the B.S.A.A. was kneeling between her legs to pleasure her. The power of that was so evocative, so erotic, so catastrophically exciting that she threw her head back and cried out in pleasure with each stroke, each plunge, each swirling skillful pulse of him.

She came hard, gasping, jerking - watching the sinful sight of him now as he licked at her body with a lover's gleeful hunger. His hands played with her breasts as he savored, his mouth left nothing but the throbbing need for him behind. She bucked against his face, grabbed handfuls of his hair, and jerked him up to her.

And commanded him, "Now."

His hand grabbed her throat, startling her, and it wasn't easy. It was rough. Possessive. His other arm looped over her hips and jerked her to him. She barely grabbed handfuls of his arms to hold onto and he surged into her.

Again, she thought madly, not gentle. Not here. Not now.

An animal.

Feral.

The hard, wet, thunderous slap of their joining ripped a shout from her. Too hard, in a way, it throbbed and almost hurt. She pushed a little into his arms as if she'd stop him. And that amused her. Because, if he stopped, she'd kill him.

She gasped, desperately, "Wait."

But he didn't.

It impressed her.

He was, without a doubt, the most tactile lover she'd ever had. His thrusting was as hard as his body. He was, by turns, at her every command or willing to disobey her to please them both. She dropped her hands from his arms to grab the railing again as he shoved himself into her body.

When his pants fell to the balcony, he kicked them away and kept going, never faltering, never losing his rhythm. Maddened, Ada held on while he obliterated her. When he slowed as if to offer her respite, she shouted, "Don't! More!"

And he delivered.

He jerked her off the railing and against him. Her legs wrapped. He kept on thrusting into her as he carried her out of the cold and into his office.

She bucked in his arms, he spilled her over the desk and pushed her legs open at the knees, crudely.

Her nails dropped, dug into the wonderful shape of his ass, and drove down on him. Grunting, he surged forward like a racehorse commanded, thrilling them both with his speed and greed.

Ada felt her body tighten, felt her breath jerk, and she saw the reflection of them in the window beyond his desk. A sight, erotic and arousing and raw, the flap of his shirt still on his torso. The spill of her coat. The sight of her smoky stockings and the red of her shoes.

Power.

There was POWER here between them. A powerful man, a powerful woman - a powerful game she played to see how far she could ride the madness of it and keep him at her command. She craved it.

And him.

He'd commanded her to come once...she did so now, gasping, low and raspy and dark. "Now. Chris - now."

His name on her lips. What was it that made his blood boil to hear it?

He pushed her down on her back on the desk, one hand splayed over her groin, the other anchoring her hips. She widened her legs, she shifted to take the hammering of him into her deeper, faster. And the sight of her pale and flushed, bucking and beautiful, long and lean and lost in satin and blood red silk...it stole his last conscious thought.

And he simply became hers, a rutting beast of a thing at her command.

He ground himself into her body so hard it hurt them both and came there, crushed against the end of her, buried inside of her. He wanted to claim her but it wasn't that, it wasn't, it was HER claiming HIM somehow. Somehow. And they both knew it.

She arched, willowly and graceful, to meet and merge with every murderous plunge.

The echo of her voice ensorcelled him.

He cursed out her name and the wet of her body milked him while he rode her through his release.

Unceremoniously, his shaking thighs dumped him back into his office chair while she lay used and resplendent across his mahogany desk.

They both were still; gasping and shaking and spent.

And Chris realized the thing he was most thankful for wasn't winning. No. It wasn't.

It was losing...to Ada Wong.


	6. Chapter 6

_**A/N:** There are pieces of another story blended in here. When I took this one down, I borrowed against it for another story on the scenes that were too good to let go of. So there's a hint of familiarity in parts of this. But the tale remains - two sets of broken lovers in a way, looking for their truth in the lie of what they were. It will lead them to a battle later, but for now, we keep on going with the romance._

* * *

 **Chapter 6: Innoculation**

* * *

 _"Panic made pains in the heart that echoed - in the ventricles and the atrium - and the soul. She yearned to feel numb once more."_

* * *

 **MAINE, DECEMBER**

"They can't see you. I swear. Come out here."

The cabin that faced the beautiful Cobscook Bay was a safe haven for a man that wouldn't emerge into the sunlight. Within the warm embrace of the firelight, he lingered. On the water, he could see the boats and the faces of the happy that dwelled and fished and laughed.

Piers Nivans didn't belong there.

Sometimes, when he was with Claire, he felt like maybe he belonged. Maybe he could belong somewhere, where they could be friends forever and not feel the judgement of a world that would label him a monster. She was so beautiful. Her skin was silky and pale, flawless, and smooth. Even if he HADN'T been ruined...he would have never tried to garner her interest in him.

For one, she was his Captain's sister. In his job, in his kind of lifestyle, what could he offer the Captain's sister? And if he failed her? His Captain would never look to him again with any respect.

But maybe..maybe...when he'd been whole...he might have done it anyway. The sight of her in the sun, her hair afire in the warm light, her eyes the same shade as the Bay that blushed and surged behind her...left him yearning a little.

He MIGHT have tried once...if he'd been...human.

But he wasn't human. He was broken. He was empty.

Most days he couldn't feel anything but bitterness and regret. He should have DIED down in that lab. It was his last great gift, his purpose, his shining self sacrifice that would take him to the beyond in a blaze of glory.

He should have gone "down with the ship" and sent his Captain on to survive and glorify the BSAA with his legendary leadership.

But no.

Someone had recovered his mutilated corpse and brought him back to life. He'd awoken a shell, empty and fragile, immersed in pain and screaming. He'd awoken a monster.

The effects of the virus were mostly permanent. Some were tempered and controlled through conversion therapy and regressive persuasion...but most of it was lasting. Maybe he didn't have a stabbing blade of an arm anymore or the rotting signs of a Javo...but he wasn't HIM anymore either. Besides the grotequeness of his appearance, there was the emptiness in his heart.

He wanted to FEEL alive. He did. He wanted to feel it.

But he felt dead inside.

"Come on, please, just for a minute? If you hate it that much, we'll go back. I promise."

And then there was Claire.

Claire.

He never felt dead inside when she was with him.

And that scared him most of all.

He eased out of the cabin onto the porch with her. Touched, she took his hand and curled their fingers together. They stood in the sun for a long moment, watching the boats on the water.

She'd rented this cabin as a test for them, for him, for them. They were away from the hospital, they were together, they were enjoying time away from the world where no one knew them. She was hoping it would break him out of his funk. She was hoping it would let him start healing a little in ways that didn't include his body.

She'd heard the nurses speculating as she'd been packing his things in her car. She knew they weren't aware she was listening. They were so cruel. They were laughing lightly about the damage to his body. They were speculating if he was ruined "all over." One was musing, if he were scarred down there, was he still functional? And the other wondered if a woman alive would bother to touch him anyway to even find out.

Her face flaming, Claire had turned toward where they were sitting on a little bench enjoying their lunch together, and he voice SHOOK with rage, "For the record, he's not only functional, he's fantastic. He fucks like he'll kill you with it. His dick? Beautiful. In fact? He's beautiful all over...which is more than I can say for you fugly ass bitches. It takes a real heartless set of cunts to sit around laughing at a man who was destroyed saving your worthless lives from the virus that nearly killed him. If there's any justice in the universe, you'll all get herpes that spreads to your faces and makes you as ugly on the outside as you are inside."

Horrified, the three nurses had sat there as she'd turned away to finish loading his bags.

After a long moment, she'd lifted her head to find him watching her from the doorway. And she knew...he'd heard every word.

She was afraid that their laughter would break him, but it turned out of her defense of him healed something in him instead. He'd hugged her, right there in the open, for the first time ever. And it felt like she'd burst with love for him.

Maybe part of her was here with him now to touch him. She knew, in some way, if she touched him and he didn't shy away...that it would be what he needed to come back to himself. There was no chance of that happening in New York.

So, they were here. And he was standing in the sun with her.

And there was hope, maybe for the first time ever, there was hope.

She mused, softly, "You want to take the little boat out later?"

She was sure he'd say no. She was positive he would.

But he said, "I think I would. Did I ever tell you I used to have a little sloop?"

Her heart was hammering in her chest, "Nope. Hand carved?"

"Yep. All by me."

"You are more like Chris than you'd think. He has one of those himself."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah." She turned her face up to him, watching his ravaged profile in the warm sunlight, "Tell me you'll stay this weekend...with me."

His face turned down to her. Their gazes lingered.

His bad hand lifted and, just a little, touched the edge of her jaw. For him, it was almost like a kiss. Her breath held with excitement for it.

And his answer made her yearn. "...I'll stay. I can't think of any place else in the world I'd rather be."

For the life of her, Claire couldn't either.

 **NEW YORK, DECEMBER**

"You can't make me."

The words lay between them like a land mine. One wrong step would set it off. And it would rain fire and brimstone down upon them. It would set the world afire. It would burn and burn and destroy everything it touched. The pain would mean the end. And the end would be better…worlds better…then this.

"It only hurts for a second and then it's over."

"You promised I would enjoy this. Christopher, you lied." And it was accusatory, it was exasperated. And she was more than alarmed at what he was suggesting. In all her life, she'd had men attempt to lure her into all manner of nefarious things.

But this…how had she let him get her here, in this position? She was losing her edge. He'd stolen her edge. Where was Ada Wong?

She shifted and looked at him, hard. Ah, she thought, there she was. She was lost somewhere in the damn ice blue of those eyes.

"I think this violates the rules. It has to."

"The rules said nothing about it. I checked…twice."

And now she laughed. He tugged her hand again and she realized she was out of time. It was now or never. And Ada Wong had never been a coward before…she wouldn't start now.

So she let him pull her…out onto the ice at Rockefeller Center.

She wobbled for a moment on the ice skates and he was there to catch her arm and guide her easily alongside him. She was annoyed to discover he moved fluidly on his skates. The puffy black parka he wore complimented his sock hat. The little hat was tucked carefully around his ears to keep them warm and his hands were happy and snug in gloves with just the tips of the fingers missing. She had to admit, he looked scrumptiously adorable all bundled up against the cold.

She was dressed in a Northface coat herself, this one a pretty plum color with a white fox fur hood. A cashmere infinity scarf in brilliant white was tucked carefully and perfectly around her neck and her short cap of hair was hidden beneath a matching white fur hat. Her hands were encased in soft leather gloves in mocha brown.

If he'd have mentioned what horrible torture he had in store for her, she would have dressed warmer beneath the coat. She was wearing white leggings that, when not tortured by ice skates, tucked into knee high brown Jimmy Choo boots and an oversized gray cable knit Ralph Lauren sweater with a floppy neck line that was cinched at the waist by a fat brown leather belt. The outfit was very chic and very chilly in the cold New York winter air.

Chris laughed a little as she wobbled again. "Ada Wong – I thought you could do anything."

"I can, you patronizing ass, " And to prove it, she let go of him to skate off alone. She could ice skate, it was true. But she hadn't had to in years. Of course, one never knew when it might be necessary to flee across a frozen river in their line of work so it was probably the best idea to get some practice.

She poured on some speed, getting into the spirit of the thing, and turned backward now, cruising easily as she found her rhythm.

"I stand corrected!" He passed several other skaters and caught up to her, taking her hands as she skated flawlessly backward now and he joined her. "I am forced to eat my words."

"Who taught you to skate anyway? You seem a lumbering buffoon. I find it hard to believe you can glide like you do."

He laughed, delighted with her. She'd managed to insult him like a lady. She was so fucking perfect.

Chris mused, chuckling, "Putting aside the feeling you're calling me clumsy, I played hockey. I learned to skate young."

"Ah. Yes. Hockey. Makes sense. A barbarians version of skating."

"What? You think I'm some Kennedy type? He was probably a figure skater. He's skinny enough to fit in those stupid spangled spandex girl suits they wear."

Ada smirked a little, liking the jealousy on him. It suited her. She wanted him jealous. It would make it easier to control him when it suited her.

"I'm fairly sure he does back flips on skates without thinking about it. Don't be jealous...I'm sure he can't punch boulders with remotely as much finesse."

He skidded to a stop on the skates. They held gazes. She was utterly serene. Not a smile. Not a sly wink. Nothing.

And he just...burst out laughing. It was a good laugh. It was full bodied. It caused people around him to smile at the sheer joy. He laughed like he did all things: all in, completely, unconcerned by the judgement of others.

His face was slightly pink from the cold air. The tip of his nose flushed. She lifted a hand to brush away a snowflake that had settled there and did something very unlike her; she let her finger settle on his mouth afterward for just a fleeting second. For her it was akin to a hug. It stole her breath a little, that intimacy. And she didn't like it at all.

He drew her to a stop beneath the giant tree, pulling her around to face it. And she had to admit, in all the years of her living in the city, she'd never taken the time to come see the tree here. It was amazing, huge and beautiful, casting it's light over the entire world it seemed. You had to stand and admire it, for just a few moments at least.

The snowflakes tickled her eyelashes as they flitted down to the delight of the other skaters.

"It's something huh?"

She nodded, smiling. "It is. I've never actually come to see it before."

He slid his arms around her waist from behind and pulled her back against him. "Well I'm glad you decided to come with me, Ada. It's the first time I've come to see it in years. I guess I haven't really had a reason to in a long time."

The alarm bells were tolling loud and fast in her head but she settled back in that embrace, unsure why it was scaring her so much. It wasn't against the rules after all, affection was allowed. But why was she afraid of it? "I didn't exactly decide to come, Mr. Redfield. I was coerced."

He was grinning a little.

And she conceded, "But thank you for bringing me."

"Thank you for coming. It's nice to have someone to share Christmas with."

She pulled away now, hating herself for the panic that was settling like a clawed thing into her chest. This had to be against the rules. Had to. Hadn't she said no emotions? No.

She shook her head and skated toward the exit. He followed her, likely unaware of the storm that was brewing inside of her. She stepped off the ice and moved to sit down and unlace her skates.

"Hey! Everything ok?"

Ada shook her head, setting the skates aside to pull on her boots. "Nothing. Just getting cold and it's starting to snow."

"Okay. Let's go get some coffee. There's a great little shop around the corner called Serendipity. Fantastic scones."

Ada nodded and watched him slip on his boots. He offered her a hand to help her rise and she ignored it, moving toward the street. She knew he was watching her with a little confusion and she was sorry for it. But she had to walk off some of this panic.

It was Friday night and cold, the breath fogging out of the mouth in a pretty white clouds. A cold front had pushed in during the day and brought the beginnings of snow with it. By the following morning, there would likely be some accumulation. It had already started to gently frost the windshields of cars.

He reached for her hand and she pulled away again, moving a little farther until they were nearly three feet apart. Saying nothing, he tucked his hands in the pockets of his coat. He wasn't a fool, he knew the signs of subtle rejection. He just wasn't sure what she was about with it.

For the last two months they'd had a really good thing going. They enjoyed each other, it was as simple as that. There hadn't been any pressure. Zero. Once or twice a week they would have a meal, see a play, get naked and sweaty and sticky together, and simply be. That's it. They would BE together. One time, she would choose. One time, he would.

He'd taken her to a Mets game, to the Bronx Zoo, to Coney Island. He'd watched Ada Wong eat a Coney Island dog and figured he was probably the only man on earth to have ever seen it happen. He'd seen Ada Wong in a Mets ball cap and figured he was the only man who had probably ever seen that either. It was a bit like seeing a chupacabra, he figured no one would ever believe him if he told them.

She'd taken him to the Met as well, to see La Boheme, which he hadn't all together hated surprisingly. And she'd taken him to the Rainbow Room, and they'd gone dancing…twice. She was a study of contradictions in what she loved to do. One night she'd simply taken him out driving in her flashy little red Maserati. Ada, it seemed, loved fast and beautiful things. It suited her and he was never bored. Never. And she was without equal when it came to passion. He'd never, in the whole of his life, had a woman that was so willing to touch him whenever it suited her.

She'd had him in the shadows of that little red Maserati with the top down and the starlight in her hair. She'd ridden him and robbed something from him he couldn't get back. It was ok, he was a willing victim, but he yearned a little for her to let him in where it mattered. She was never unguarded, even if she was completely uninhibited in the bedroom.

But she shied away from affection like this. Sometimes, rarely, she let him touch her in a manner that was more than sex. Rarely. But sometimes. The sight of the playful otters at the zoo had made her laugh in delight and hug him. Full body, no thinking. She'd just hugged him. But something had shifted in him, hard. And he knew, even if she didn't, that this was more than sex.

He wasn't sure he was ready for it either but the other option was to cut her off. And he didn't want to. He wasn't sure he'd ever want to. But he was sure of one thing, she was trying to pull away from him and he didn't like that one bit.

They passed by Serendipity without going in for coffee. Without saying a word, they moved to the privacy of the BSAA building. Neither said anything as the elevator rose, leaving them standing in awkward silence.

The door had barely closed on the penthouse before she said it, "I think it might be time to rethink this."

He tossed his sock hat on the shiny black piano that sat off to one side of his living room. Behind him, New York was alight with holiday cheer. The Empire State Building was twinkling red and green and the tree they'd left behind was declaring it was the most wonderful time of the year. The puffy parka quickly followed and Ada felt herself wince as he gave no concern to the fact that he had just tossed his clothes onto an $80,000 Steinway grand piano. It was clear he knew nothing of the value of thing.

He was always saying it, but it was never more clear in than in this moment: he was no Leon Kennedy.

Leon knew the value of beautiful things. Chris Redfield? He was a man as comfortable in an eight dollar Hanes shirt as he was in a three thousand dollar Armani suit. He simply didn't care about the worth of the mundane or the material. He valued what mattered: devotion, emotion, dedication. And it was what made him so unique and utterly reliable.

You almost forgot he wasn't simple until he did something unpredictable, and stole your breath.

The sweater he wore was oatmeal colored, an Irish fisherman sweater that was probably as soft as it looked. The jeans beneath were, as always, old and faded and nearly worn through at one knee. One of the back pockets had started to rip away. But they fit right, in all the right places, and the sight of him never failed to make her blood heat.

He poured himself three fingers of vodka. He rarely drank. He'd come back from his druken months of regret and steered clear of it. She knew he was hurting, badly, if he was willing to drink.

"Chris, did you hear me?"

"I heard you." He shot the drink back in one fluid motion. "Take off the coat Ada. At least have the decency to dump me without your armor on."

Because he was very much right, the coat was armor, she took it off and hung it neatly on the coat rack beside the door. The hat was hung nicely beside it. She was just vain enough to scoop a hand through her hair as she rejoined him in the living room.

He was standing looking out the window now, one hand tucked carelessly into a pocket, the other bringing a second drink to his lips for a smooth swallow. "Did you want a drink?"

Ada shook her head. "I shouldn't stay. Could you look at me please?"

He turned, studied her. "Just do it. Say it."

"It's not fun anymore." She heard the words and knew it was better to do it this, like this, then tell the truth. Which was what? Her mind wondered. What was the truth? _Chris, I'm ending this because I'm afraid it's gotten too close, it's gotten too comfortable. Chris, I'm ending this because I don't want you to get any closer. I need to retain my control, I can't do that if you're too close._ "We said we'd end it when it wasn't fun anymore."

"We did say that." He turned, set the glass down on the piano, and settled himself on the bench. His fingers danced carefully over the ivory…and started to play. Moonlight Sonata spilled out of the wonderful, beautiful, brilliant instrument that he masterfully stroked.

Yes. A simple man...until he did something unpredictable and stole your breath.

"A long time ago, I had to help Rebecca figure this damn song out while we were at the Spencer Estate," He smoothly tickled the keys, coaxing them to sing their song flawlessly, "After it all happened, I figured, what the fuck…I'm gonna learn how to play the damn piano. Because you never know when it might be something I need again."

He touched the piano with such skill, such precise and perfect ability; she felt her heart stutter and drop. "Somewhere along the way I stopped thinking of it as a necessary skill. And I just fell in love with it. There were times I wanted to give up and stop doing it. Because it would have been easier to just quit when it got hard. I guess my point is that we don't always get what we expect from something Ada…sometimes we get something even better. But the hard part is sticking around to figure out if it's worth working for it. "

She hadn't realized she was moving toward him. She didn't think he had either, until she slid over him and settled on his lap, straddling him. What really turned her on was that he didn't hesitate, and didn't stop playing the song, even as she put her weight on him.

His eyes turned up to her face but he kept on playing, muscle memory and practice, and sheer talent. Another check in the column of things she liked about him. He was unflappable, and so unpredictable, and so immensely diverse. How could she have guessed the depths of him? Would anyone have suspected what lay beneath the beer and nachos jock that he portrayed to the rest of the world?

Ada said nothing now, her hands pushed under the sweater and lifted, freeing the soft lambs wool from his body. He stopped playing long enough to let her and began again, the low, eerie strains of Beethoven's classic piece filling the room with it's ethereal beauty.

Ada put her mouth to the side of his neck and licked a wet, smooth line from collarbone to pec. Her nails raked gently through the feathering of hair that decorated him there. She pressed warm, moist kisses over the rigid scope and breadth of his chest, delighting in the muscled strength of him. Her teeth teased at the St. Christopher's medal that he wore on a sterling silver chain, a gift from his parents at his graduation from flight school.

She skimmed her hands down the ridged and wonderful planes of his stomach, marveling at the muscles there, plenty to tantalize without being overly defined. He wasn't ripped out, like a body builder, even though it would have been easy for his body to lean that way. He was simply muscular, strong, with a suggestion of definition beneath the warm, wonderful skin that turned into goosebumps beneath her teasing nails.

Her mouth turned, kissing smooth and soft, up his neck and along his jaw. He hadn't shaved in almost a week now and the hair had gone from a shadow to the beginnings of a fantastic beard. Not stubbly, it had passed into soft, and it met her lips sweetly as she crossed his jaw to his cheek.

She kissed the tip of his nose, still cool from the outside, and both of his closed eye lids. And her thumbs traced his soft and wonderful mouth. She nuzzled his growing beard with her nose, loving the tickle of the soft hair.

"How long until it's a full beard?"

Her voice was soft in the quiet against the back drop of music from his still playing hands. Eyes closed, he answered, softly, "Won't be much longer. Hasn't taken me longer than a few weeks since I was about fifteen. Why?"

"I think I'd like to see it on you. Will you let it go for me?"

He stopped playing and his eyes opened. This close, they were startlingly blue, almost the shocking blue of ice and winter sky. They were so close that their noses brushed as he answered.

"Yes."

She brushed her nose against his, once, twice. He didn't move, not a muscle, as she cupped his face, ran her thumbs along his cheeks.

Outside the snow had started to come down in fat, heavy, flakes. It would be more than a few inches by morning at this rate.

She met his eyes now and held them. "I want to stay the night here with you. I want to have you on this piano."

He was so very still, she found she liked that. It was like he was trying to avoid the strike of the snake. She pressed her mouth to edge of his and she wanted, almost painfully, to kiss him. And it scared her enough that she retreated from the idea of it with a vengeance.

"Say yes, Chris. Say yes. Let me have you."

He lifted his hands now and slid them around the inside of her thighs. "Yes."

The moment he said it, he wanted it back. Because he was afraid if he let her that far in, he'd never want to let her out.

And he'd somehow lost the game without even knowing the rules.

Because he was the guy stupid enough to start falling for a spy.

* * *

 **MAINE, DECEMBER**

The dishes were done. The fire was quivering prettily in the little wood-stove. The crackle of flame and logs was nearly musical.

Her voice was so very soft when Claire asked, quietly, "You know why I brought you up here, don't you?"

Piers turned toward her, shaking a little. "I know...I don't know if I can, Claire."

The admission broke her heart and somehow gave her strength. She stepped up to him, trembling a little. Her hands lifted to settle on his ruined face and he almost...almost...pulled away. She saw what it cost him to stay there and let her hold him like that.

He was so very tall, she had to lean up on her tip toes to get her mouth close to his. She watched the panic on his face and wanted, desperately, to soothe it away. He breathed, gently, "I don't want to hurt you, Claire. For anything. Ever."

Her thumbs brushed his mouth, lovingly. "We won't hurt anymore now, Piers. Not anymore. I won't push you. I won't hurt you. I won't make you do anything you don't want to do. But I want...I want you to come take off your clothes, let me see you, let me touch you. Just...lay down beside me and hold me...let me hold you..."

He was trembling as he cupped her arms in his hands. She petted the shape of his face so perfectly. And there was nothing but tenderness on hers as he watched her.

He wanted, so badly, to just say yes. To just, just once, pretend he could have her.

And that he was himself again.

So his breath came out on a tiny sound of need and he whispered, "...yes."

His head came down, hers came up, and the press of his mouth was smooth and perfect. It robbed every thought but him from her head. It left them both clinging where they stood. The kiss was endless, effortless, and perfect. There was no rush to see it end. There was no rush to run away. They both wanted it to go on forever.

And the fire crackled happily as they held on, lost in each other.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7: Amplification**

* * *

" _Desperate, she fought and fell and bled. She clung and capitulated, costing her everything."_

* * *

 **Maine, December**

The middle of night found the fire had died. The shadows and the curl of moonlight on the floor and the walls was romantic, timeless, and storybook pretty.

The feel of him between her legs was something else.

In the dark, he wasn't afraid to touch her. The moment the lights had gone, he'd come alive in her arms. He forgot about the scars, forgot the crippling fear, and touched her. His hands and his mouth were no longer gentle, his need was nearly stifling.

He held her down beneath the weight of him, her arms drawn above her head, her legs around his flanks, her back bowing with each thrust of him inside her.

She'd told those nurses he was perfect. She'd defended him. She'd staunchly swore he was beautiful all over. And that he'd kill you with his touch.

He was killing her where she bucked beneath him.

He wouldn't let her up. His hands imprisoned, his hips cupped to her to hold her down for the plunge of him between her legs. Her nightgown was barely more than bunched around her waist. He hadn't taken it from her. He left it on her and slid her panties to the side. It was a coupling that was so painfully wet, so organic, so desperate that Claire could do little more than feel like blood and boil and want.

She'd never had a man be so desperate for her that he couldn't even take her clothes. She turned her head and he filled her mouth with his tongue. Someone moaned, someone gasped, and he just...he didn't stop.

It had been so long for her. She hadn't taken a man to bed since Neil. Her failed groping of Leon had resulted in abstinence on her part while she sorted out her life. She might have thought this would be gentle somehow, or sweet, or needy. It was. It was needy. But it wasn't gentle.

How long had it been for him, she wondered, how long? Knowing how devoted he'd been to his job, she was betting he'd been celibate himself long before he'd been damaged.

The pace increased, filling the quiet dark with the surging sounds of slapping skin and surrender. Claire begged a little, rising to meet each of his desperate thrusts. "Piers...Piers...let me...just let me..."

He let go of her hands.

They moved, catching in his hair to bring his mouth into her for a raping plumb of her tongue. The excitement of her spurred him on. They lunged together now, surging, throbbing. He scrambled to hold her tighter, drawing her up and into him and pushing her against the headboard.

Claire octopus held him, pushing against the beat of his body until he hit the end of her and drove small cries of pleasure and pain from her mouth. Too rough, she thought, and yet not rough enough. Perfect.

She shoved her hands under his sweater and rubbed his chest, spilling her fingers over the scars on him and petting. She grabbed handfuls of his back and jerked him harder into her with each stroke of his body. He grunted, gasped, and gave her everything he had until the rhythm was lost and they were just smashing together in a sweaty, desperate, dying heap.

He let her take the sweater off him and throw it away. He didn't care about her hands on his scars. He didn't care about anything but the feel of her writhing in his arms. He jerked the nightgown down and crushed the feel of her breasts into him. Soft, full, they brushed against his body and drove them both insane.

They rolled and Claire spilled atop him, swirling and rocking. She dropped her body until they clung, forehead to forehead, and her lifting and lowering hips were punctuated with each soft moan and sound of pleasure. Whose? It didn't matter.

It was both of them.

The moonlight shifted, it spilled over them in a silvery wash, and she breathed, "Piers...look at me..."

His eyes opened. They met hers...and held.

And they kept on holding when he surged up one last time, and let her claim him.

There was no regret in the moonlight. No pain.

Just two people lost in the thrill of discovery and the promise of release.

They curled together, gasping, and complete.

She pressed their mouths together and felt the moment he let her in, just a little, just enough.

In the dark, in the warmth of that cabin, his voice cuddled her closer, "Claire...Merry Christmas."

It wasn't a walk in the sun, it was love in the dark, but it was the beginning of something fragile and real.

She couldn't think of a Christmas she'd enjoyed more...in a long, long, long time.

* * *

 **NEW YORK, DECEMBER**

The game was something Ada Wong had been enjoying for so long that she'd forgotten, somewhere along the way, to insulate herself against an opponent that would use subterfuge to wound her.

He'd done that somehow...the man in the dark...he'd ducked right, ducked left and kicked her in the heart while she'd been trying to control him.

How?

In his sleep, he shifted toward her. His mouth brushed against her neck and the warmth of him slid over her like a blanket.

She should use his softness and turn the knife back on him. She should hurt him for slipping under her guard to make her care about him.

And he'd done that simply by existing.

The desire for revenge was entirely Ada Wong.

The desire to stifle it and avoid hurting the person responsible wasn't.

It was stupid, foolish, and juevenile. It was feminine and unguarded and overtly human. It was utterly natural that she should come to develop an affection for him. She didn't generally avoid that kind of thing in a lover. She wanted to like the man she was engaging in an affair with, naturally. And intelligence, humor, wit...these things all helped her be satisfied with one once she'd chosen.

But this was getting out of her hands here. She was fond of him. Fond. And that created conflict if she needed to end it. She'd tried, earlier, and failed. Not because of him...because of HER. Because she didn't want to stop sleeping with him. She didn't want to stop seeing him. She didn't want to stop enjoying him.

And he was making her crave him in a way that was distinctly outside her character.

As she lay beside him, reflecting, in the coolness of early dawn, she knew two things:

She wanted to keep him. And it had nothing to do with any game. It was pure want of his laughter, his attention, his time. It was personal now, in a way it hadn't ever been before.

And because of that, she had to let him go.

There'd only been the risk of emotion once in her life before this. Once. It had been allowing herself to kiss Leon Kennedy in the bowels of Raccoon City. Young, a little scared, and impossibly sweet - he'd called to something in her she'd hidden under the surface of ambition. She'd let him in the moment she'd picked him up off the floor of the RPD station instead of letting him lie in his own blood and die.

He'd leapt in front of bullet for her. And the shot through the heart had been hers after all.

She'd fled from him and escaped falling. It had been close. And she'd sworn off emotion since that moment.

And yet here she was, balanced on the edge of a precarious, poisonous position. Because she wanted to keep things casual and she enjoyed a powerful man in her bed. But it wasn't casual. Not anymore.

Why? And which of them had started to break the rules to put them here?

The rules were in place for a reason. This was the reason. Her hand traced over his chest, moving up and down peacefully in sleep now, it memorized the line of his face, the spill of his hair, the edge of his arm. She mapped his skin with her nails, with her eyes, and she pressed her mouth to his because she had to, had to. Just a little. Just that one time.

He was sleeping. He wouldn't know. It harmed nothing to do it.

She could leave now, in the middle of the night, and he'd never know. She should, she thought, she should leave.

Instead, she rolled into him and played with his body to bring him awake. Soft, he was almost delicate in her hands. She knew the moment he came awake. Because the sweet softness of his body turned hard and velvety in her milking grip.

The simple surprise of it drew his eyes open. Lord, she mused, beautifully silver in the dark. Those eyes of his were beautiful. And so full of everything. Didn't he understand how to lie? Didn't he understand how to FAKE? Why did he have to be such a fucking boyscout? Why did the pleasure of her have to perfectly written over every feature on his face?

Why did he have to make this so hard?

Although, to be fair, she was the one currently making him hard.

She breathed, softly, "What do you see when you look at my face?"

His hand lifted, slid against her cheek and pulled her forward. She went, spilling atop him and then around him as he rolled her to her back and leaned above her. She raised a hand and skimmed the shaggy spill of his hair off his brow.

Chris answered, quietly, "What kind of question is that?"

Ada shifted and raised her knee. It put him against her, pressed the naked length of their bodies together. It pleased her to feel the contrast in them. She was smooth and soft. He was hard and hairy. It thrilled and outlined something else she enjoyed about their coupling. He was very dense, overtly male, and the springy spread of his groin and chest delighted her in a sheer feminine way.

So, she mused, "Once you could barely look at me without seeing what the bitch with my face had done to you."

His hands cupped her face, thumbs sweeping the smoothness of her cheeks. "It was your face, Ada. But it wasn't you."

"Wasn't it?" She wondered, watching his eyes in the dark.

Chris shook his head, gently. "No. Whatever else is true, you're not evil, Ada. You're not bad. Not where it matters. Not _when_ it matters."

"Don't do that, Chris. Don't see me with blinders on. I'm, first and foremost, entirely about me. You have to know that about me. I will, almost always, put myself first."

They held gazes. And then she rubbed her groin against his and watched it hood in his eyes.

And the power she'd been missing floated right there in the need of him.

She could push now and take it back...but she wanted to hear his answer.

"There's nothing wrong with being protective of yourself, Ada. Nothing. But you went down into that lab to save Piers. You came onto that beach to save me. You put yourself in harms way more than once to protect Sherry and Jake. How many times did you risk yourself for Leon over the years?"

Ada said nothing, watching his face as he watched hers. His was full of so many things. Hers?

Blank and cool...but her hands stroked his back like a lover.

"I have reasons for everything I do, Chris. Everything. Don't make me a hero...or you'll only be courting disappointment."

"I don't think you're a hero, Ada. I think you're a person who does a lot of lying. To everyone you meet." He dropped his face close to hers. Their lips brushed as he spoke. "To yourself. What do I see when I look at you?"

Her hands smoothed down and slid over his ass, angling him against her body to rub him there. It brought both of their mouths open on a pant of excitement. And he finished, smoothly, "I see a woman used to winning...afraid to lose to her own feelings."

A good answer.

A bad answer.

Because he wore his truth like a weapon that he used to destroy her. She didn't want his truth, any more than she wanted to feel legitimate emotion for him. That wasn't part of this. It couldn't be.

She had rules for a reason.

This was one of them.

But she breathed, "And what am I feeling?"

He whispered back, "...me."

And he was right about that too.

She should leave him. She should leave this. It was time.

And yet she breathed, "I want to feel more of you...take me."

She watched it echo on his face. He shifted enough that he slid inside of her and her mouth spilled open on a gasp. Eager, she thought madly, he was always so eager to please her.

Against her mouth, he whispered his last admission, "Are you afraid to let me all the way inside of you, Ada? Or are you afraid that I'm already there?"

Her voice was hoarse, delighting him, "You're already inside me."

"Am I?" He shifted, slid in and out and stole her breath, "I am. Maybe I am. But what if I want to get in here?"

His hand slid over her chest. It skimmed her breast. And it settled over her heart.

Jesus.

She wanted to protest. She wanted to push away. She wanted to pull him closer.

But her body wanted what he offered more.

She needed the power back. She grabbed his face and hissed, "Enough. Fuck me."

And he did that too. No denying. Obedience.

He was almost perfect..if he'd just stop trying to love her.

They came together smooth and wet, needy and raw. As Claire and her lover found their way in the dark to the beginning of something beautiful, Ada Wong found her way with the other Redfield in the dark to the end of something painfully perfect.

She had rules for a reason.

She had rules to protect herself from this.

She had rules...and she didn't break them for anyone.

He'd broken them. He'd pushed his way inside of her. There were no second chances for that.

They rolled across the bed in a flurry of skin and need. It was fast, like lightning and loss. He spilled her to her belly and mounted her from behind. And he curled against her back while he loved her.

Because that's what it was, she thought madly, he loved her. The bastard. He wore it all over him like that sweater she'd plucked from his body.

Love.

It was against the rules.

He finished wetly, thumbing and working her body while he plunged into the heat of her. His fucking was as painfully perfect as he was. Damn him. He brought her with him, thrusting back against the surge of his possession. They came together with sounds of need; grunts and gasps and moans.

Chris spilled to his side on the bed shaking and spent. He laughed a little, scratching his sweaty chest. He figured, not bad for forty fucking years old. What was it about this woman that made him able to fuck more often then a horny teenage boy?

Ada curled against the headboard for a moment as her body quaked and finished.

And then she rose and dressed in the dark.

She heard him shift as she was putting on her boots.

"Ada? What is it?"

"I have to go."

He shifted, the sheets falling around his chest as he sat up. "Hold on. Wait. What's the matter?"

She shook her head and moved, heading out of the bedroom. She heard him rise and follow her.

"We're done. This is done."

"Ada, hold on. What's going on here?"

He was watching her in the moonlight now from the windows that were his wall. He was so wonderful in just a pair of sweat pants he'd thrown on. She wanted to climb atop his body like a desperate spider, spin a web around him to bind him, and keep him forever. Damn him.

Instead, she shook her head at him. "No second chances, remember?"

She turned toward the door. "It's better this way. For both of us."

"Hold on, damnit, Ada!" He followed her out into the hallway as she hit the button the elevator. "Fuck the fucking rules."

She might have escaped without anything else ruining it. She might have…but he put his hand on her arm to stall her.

She turned into him, turned toward him. He felt her push him hard against the wall and let her. She was a bundle of emotion, a storm, slim and wonderful and intoxicating. She grabbed his face and drew him to her. Overwhelmed, he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her against him.

It was pure greed, pure need, pure want. Her feet dangled as she put her teeth to his throat and suckled like a vampire; her fingers fisted in his hair. He reversed their positions, pressing her against the wall. Her mouth ate along his chest, tongue taking, lips tasting and stealing his breath. He thought his brains might have fallen out his ass somewhere along the way as well. He'd never felt this much emotion from her. Ever.

It was like holding a live wire in his hands. No matter who moved, they were both going to fry.

His hands were already pulling her back toward the apartment.

The elevator pinged and opened.

Ada pulled away, shaking herself. "No. I have to go."

He leaped onto the elevator after her at the last second. She lifted a hand at him. "Don't. I mean it."

He pressed her back against the wall of it, caught her face, and tried to kiss her. She pushed at his chest, shoved. "Stop it."

He back off, just a bit.

And then she grabbed him to pull him back to her.

They spilled hands all over each other like horny beasts. His mouth spilled over her cheek, brushed against hers. He kept trying to kiss her. DAMN HIM. This was why it had to be over.

She pushed him away. "Stop it! Damnit! I said no kissing."

"For fuck's sake, Ada, stop being a coward." Him and his truth, she thought desperately, always the weapon to wound her.

Chris caught her around the waist and picked her up, dangling her feet again. She wrapped her arms around his waist and slid them down to grip his ass. She ground their bodies together and had him stumbling and bumping into the wall. She felt like the top of her head had blown off and taken all her reason with it.

Her hands touched him, memorized him, made him insane for wanting her. He moved backward, slapping random buttons again on the elevator panel to take them back upstairs. Her hands were in his pants now, taunting and making him lose his mind.

He echoed her, pushing his hand into her leggings to seek out of the root of her. She gasped, slapped him away even as she bowed into him. Crude, she thought madly, he was so crude. He was fingering her in an elevator like a randy kid.

There was nothing of Ada Wong left here.

Just a woman desperate for Chris Redfield.

THIS WAS WHY THERE WERE RULES.

They bumped into the corner of the elevator, both of them panting and gasping. They were playing with each other maddeningly. She kept bucking into his hand, he kept humping into hers. It was bad.

BAD.

She pushed away, flushed and shaking. She was losing control.

It was time to be done here.

"No! Just…stop it. No."

"Jesus Christ, Ada. You can't say that to a man who's dick you've got in your hand."

He was right. Dear god! She let him go and pulled away completely. Horrified that he'd put her in this position. Wait. No. That SHE'D put herself in this position. She pushed at him.

"You…you…leave me alone!"

"Wait..what? You keep jumping me!"

"I…shut up!" Oh he was right. That was lowering. It was shaming. It couldn't really be true, could it? She opened her mouth to protest and the doors pinged open.

They were at the lobby level.

She got off the elevator. She tried to regain what little dignity she had left.

"Ada!" He reached out for her as the doors started to close and she met his eyes and hated this feeling…this…regret.

But she said, "Chris…it's better this way. The rules...they exist for a reason."

The pain on his face...she'd never forget it.

He whispered, "Fuck your fucking rules...don't do this, Ada. I mean it."

"Goodbye...Mr. Redfield."

The doors pinged shut.

Ada put a hand to her chest and breathed.

It was better. Better. BETTER. THIS is why she didn't do feelings. THIS.

She had to be in control. Otherwise? Chaos.

She'd been in chaos before she'd come from nothing to become Ada Wong. The girl she'd been once had existed in chaos. She wouldn't go back there. Not for anyone. Not for anything.

Not for Umbrella or The Organization. Not for Neo Umbrella, Spencer, the BSAA or Simmons. Not for Albert Wesker and not for his greatest enemy.

No matter how much part of her wanted...to OWN that enemy.

There was power in denial as well. He would chase her now. He would crave her.

She was back in control.

Her face reflected back from the empty windows of the building...she was back in control.

It was the first time the victory of that rang hollow for her. Ada Wong wasn't often a woman given to failure. The bitch in red never left a mission unfinished.

Only relationships, it seemed.

Because that's what this was...that's what he was...unfinished.

And mired in regret.

She whispered, softly and filled with more feeling than she'd ever shown another living soul, "I'm so sorry, Chris...Merry Christmas."

Staring out over the endless piles of snow, Chris Redfield was colder than the New York skyline...and he couldn't think of one he'd enjoyed less...in a long, long, long time.


	8. Chapter 8

_**A/N:** We touch on our other heroes here. And go AU on what happens to Sherry. She's not been under Simmons thumb all this time in this version. Why? Because I wrote this originally BEFORE 6 came out. And I gave her whatever backstory I wanted. So there ya go. I tweaked it a bit after 6 to shine light on things. But I've left her backstory the same. It helps explain the love story there._

 _Slainte!_

* * *

 **Chapter 8:** **Regression**

* * *

 _"Egress - obsess - she tried to take it back. But the pain of the departure left her desperate, and mired in her own misery."_

* * *

 **New York, January**

"Yoko, do you think he's ready?"

Claire hesitated, watching Piers with the children down in the snowy garden outside the hospital. They were laughing and throwing snowballs. They were rushing him to take him to his back in the drifting white. Snow angels were everywhere...as was laughter...and hope.

It was so painful to believe in it.

Beside her, Yoko Suzuki was smiling. She was the best in the world when it came to trauma. She'd put him back together and helped guide him back to himself. She'd survived Raccoon City and become someone who never left that kind of nightmare stop anyone else, again, from living their life to the fullest. She'd dedicated herself to the recovery of those who seemed hopeless, helpless, and lost.

She was hoping Piers Nivans wasn't lost.

Her gaze passed from the laughing boy with the children to the man on the bench some meters away.

Where one Redfield seemed to be encouraging, the other was flagging. Chris Redfield never wavered. He showed up twice a week, he visited, he kept Piers in good spirits. But his own were sad.

Yoko could see the grief of something painful around him like a cloud. She wondered if his sister could see it as well.

But she answered the redhaired girl beside her, calmly, "Is he ready to leave the hospital permanently?"

Claire nodded, eagerly. In the garden, a little girl tackled Piers to his back while he laughed bright and loud. She put her hand to her mouth to hold in the small sound of happiness. He was so free out there. So free. In a way she'd never seen him. Children, she mused, were what gave him life again.

Children...and her.

Yoko sighed a little, shifting in the snow. The little hat she wore dipped on her brow, offering a hint of black hair beneath the white wool, "Depends on how you approach him, Claire. Is he ready physically? Yes. He's been ready for months. Is he ready emotionally?"

She shrugged, watching him, "He's tender still. A nudge could set him off. A nudge could set him free. It's delicate."

Claire nodded a little. She glanced from the laughter to the bench and frowned. Her brother.

He sat in the cold smoking.

His face was thin beneath the beard he wore. He'd lost weight. He seemed angry. The anger didn't surprise her. In the time since China, he'd been angry plenty. But for a brief moment...he'd also been happy. Where was the happy?

What had happened?

But she knew.

OF COURSE SHE KNEW.

ADA -mother fucking - Wong.

Irritated, Claire sighed a little. She started forward and was surprised when Yoko beat her to it. The little woman crossed the snow and took up a spot on the bench beside him.

Chris glanced at her beneath his heavy blue beanie cap. Her dark eyes were lost behind little red sunglasses. His were obscured by polarized Oakleys in yellow.

Yoko spoke first, surprising him, "Whoever she is, she isn't worth all this pouting."

Amused now, his mouth lifted in a smile, "No?"

"No." She turned a little, crossing her little boots, "She is a dumb woman. You are better off without her. And you are too smart of a man to sit here pining for someone stupid enough to let you go."

"That so?"

"It is. I'm a doctor. You have to take my medical advice."

"And what's your medical advice?"

Yoko considered and finally took his cigarette. She took a little puff and it curled between them. "I'm afraid it's too complex to tell you all of it now, Mr. Redfield. You need to take me to dinner and I'll explain the entire course of treatment."

They held glasses.

His mouth twitched. "Doctor's orders?"

Hers echoed it. "Indeed."

And he laughed. "Well, how can I say no?"

On the snowy hill, Claire felt her eyebrows wing up. Piers came up beside her, toting a laughing child under each arm. He was huffing and grinning and flushed. She touched his face and kissed him, softly.

He grinned at her, "Everything ok?"

She studied her laughing brother. She studied the laughing children in his arms. He looked so calm. Was he ready?

Was she?

Maybe it was time to find out.

So Claire said, quietly, "You know what? I think it will be. I really, really do."

* * *

 **Russia, January**

The screams were horrible. They filled the night with their endless litany of desolation. It raked across the body in claws of continuous destruction.

They started in the lab and spread through the building like a virus. A virus…a deadly creation meant to create monsters. And so it had. And so it did.

And the monsters awakened. And the monsters hungered.

And the monsters began to feed.

* * *

 **Montana, January**

The mistress of pain was a merciless, mindless, soul raping, skin torturing bitch with three heads that liked to fuck you up, fuck you over, and piss on your bones. He knew this, had always known this, had always felt this. But he kept playing her game anyway because the result was so damn good. He felt the slings and arrows of her touch here, in the great wide open, more than anywhere else. Because he couldn't stay, couldn't. And wanted nothing more.

The spread of the Rocky Horse Ranch spread over countless acres of beautiful, rich, fertile land and sky. There was no real end and no real beginning to it. The Kennedy family had owned it since the country had gone from undiscovered, to populated. It had changed hands as time had brought it from generation to generation and now rested in the hands of the Senator's son, the former right hand of the President, the head of the office now known as the DSO – which was essentially a black ops division of the Secret Service.

The DSO didn't exist. It was funded, privately, by the private sector of the government bent on the dissolution of terrorist threat both foreign and domestic. The methods weren't publicly approved. The ideology was still righteous but with limits. For the good of the people took on a whole new meaning when you were staring down at a prisoner and waiting for the right answers.

He'd picked up the hatchet to take off the tip of those fingers more than once. He'd been the man with no soul more than once. The social circle that surrounded him found him charming, pleasant, intelligent and sincere. He doubted they would think so if they saw him splattered with the blood of a bio-terrorist in mid interrogation. Of course one thing remained true, he might be splattered in the blood of the enemy, but at least the blood was covering Armani.

Even now, standing on the porch of the ranch house in the middle of nowhere, he was dressed flawlessly. The jeans were Diesel, the t-shirt Calvin Klein, the jacket Hugo Boss. He didn't do flannel and man of the mountain. But if he'd had to, he'd have rocked that look too. There were few men on the planet as handsome as Leon Kennedy and even less that hid the skill and determination of a well paid killer behind it.

He moved toward the sound of hoof beats to find the Ranch manager, Gil, riding up toward him. Gil was mid-fifties and slighty over weight with a shock of red, red, red hair and a bushy beard. He was dressed in flannel and leather and had a belt buckle with two horses in rodeo. Gil was a man of the mountain.

"Well I'll be a monkey's uncle!" He leaped from the horse and moved quickly to give Leon a hard, one armed hug. "You didn't tell me you were comin boy! I'd have had Sara cook up something good for dinner."

"It was last minute really. I'd had some time off. Wanted to see how the winter was going up here."

"Great! Great! The harvest went really well in the fall. And we had to take on three extra hands to absorb the extra work. I just talked to your Daddy about it the other day actually. I'm surprised he didn't tell ya."

Well he wouldn't have. Leon wasn't surprised. His "Daddy" was the Senator of the great state of Massachusetts. Very right wing, very conservative. And although he was a versatile and talented man, he wasn't much of a father and hadn't ever really been. Leon had been raised in boarding schools or by nannies or at the Academy. He was a legacy, a title, and hadn't even bothered to fulfill that legacy by following his father into politics. He was a great disappointment to the Senator.

"We haven't had much occasion to chat lately."

Gil studied that handsome profile with a sense of the old hurt behind the blasé tone. He'd known Leon since he was a little boy. He'd spent many summers here learning the land and the ropes. He was pretty much the child Sara and Gil had always wanted and couldn't have. And when he'd needed a place for the child he'd found in Raccoon City to live, Sara and Gil had taken her in as well.

The last twelve years they'd raised Sherry Birkin as their own. And Leon had paid for the whole thing. He'd never asked for anything but that they show her love. "No boarding schools," He told them, the moment he'd shown up on the porch with her, "No nannies."

Sara, who'd always wanted children, who'd help raise the man before her, had taken a look at the scrawny, beautiful, sad little urchin with her shaggy blonde hair and quit her job the next day. She'd become a stay at home mother and put Sherry and her needs first and foremost.

Twice Leon Kennedy had blessed them with a child to love. And now he'd become a man and the girl, a woman, and Gil couldn't be happier. He and Sara hadn't been blessed to have their own but they still had children. Maybe not by blood but by something so much more important.

Putting his tongue in his cheek, Gil said, carefully, "Well…the Senator is always aware of what's going on around you."

"Right."

"I ain't gonna tell you he's the best Daddy, god knows that ain't true," Gil struck up a cigarette and inhaled, deeply, "But he did the best by you he knew how. Someday you'll appreciate that."

"I appreciate it. But it doesn't make me love him." Leon turned his head and listened, he heard the laughter first. "Sherry is home as well."

"Yep. Gotta a break from work herself. Flew in to see how we were doing."

Leon followed him off toward the barn. "Will it complicate things if I stay in the house too then?"

"'Course not. Sherry loves it when you're here. And there's plenty of room."

The barn was filled with the clean smell of hay and horses. The laughter lead them toward the office built into the back.

Sherry stood in riding gear, jodhpurs in pale beige tucked into knee high black boots, a little black jacket that hit at the waist with a furred hood. Pale pink peaked out of the partially zipped front from the collared shirt she wore beneath. Her short blonde hair was expertly cut and maintained in a pretty pixie, highlighting her lovely face. She wore no make up, she wasn't much for it and never had been. But she didn't need it. She had good genes from both her parents and was beautiful for it.

She caught his eyes as they moved forward and laughed with delight. "Leon!"

He caught her in a hug and brought the scent of her into him. He realized he'd missed her. They hadn't seen each other in quite some time. What had happened in China had been so brief, so fast. And it had been nearly five years since he'd seen her before that. He regretted the little time he had to spend with her as she got older.

He knew she worked with Claire, for Terra Save now, in some capacity as an advisor. He knew she'd brought Wesker's son into the fold as well. She was somewhat of a field agent when it was necessary.

Part of him wished she'd avoided this life. That she'd married, had children, and grown up to be something safe and simple. But here she was and she was good at what she did and he was proud of her.

"Look at you," He smiled down into her face as she squeezed him, "Getting too old for your own good kid."

Sherry laughed a little and hated this moment. Would he never see what the rest of the world did? Would he never see she was a woman now? He was only a decade older then her. But sometimes she got the feeling he might think of her like a daughter or something. It was annoying.

He thirty five now, she knew. And still hadn't married. And she wondered if he'd ever figure out what she'd known for thirteen years. That she was crazy, completely, utterly in love with him. He looped a companionable arm over her shoulders as she drew back.

"I've missed you." He said it with such honest sincerity. And part of her hated that it was said with what might be brotherly affection.

"I've missed you too." And hers was said with boiling, burning love. She'd come out here to get away from the need that festered in her for him. She'd always loved him, always. As a girl it had been dreamy, sweet, and hero worship. As she'd grown and spent summers with him, it had become real and painful.

The summer of her eighteenth birthday, he'd just taken the job as President Graham's bodyguard. He'd come home one last time to celebrate. She'd thrown on her best party dress, fixed her long, long blonde hair into curls and glory, and tried her best to entice him.

And then she'd come around the corner of the barn and saw him on the phone. It was a facetime chat of some kind. A conference call with someone in his agency. The girl on the phone was pretty, yes, but she was talking about a woman. And showing pictures of the woman. Some tall thing with black hair cut short and pretty in red.

The look on his face had been what Sherry had always hoped she'd see for her. It was something painful and denied. He looked at the pictures of that woman like Sherry had always looked at him. And her heart broke. It shattered.

That next day she'd gone and gotten all her hair cut off. Part of her hated that she did it thinking maybe he liked the short hairstyle of the other woman. Part of her did it because no longer did she have to pretend to be a girly girl. Clearly that wasn't going to entice him.

She joined up with Terra Save after college and tried to move on from the idea of him. He disappeared for great periods of time on missions. He wasn't there at Christmas anymore and didn't call like he'd used to. Life moved forward. And the woman in the picture, Ada Wong, popped up one day as a bad guy and everything went down with Simmons and the clones.

Undigging from that mess had taken awhile. Sherry had met Jake and they had engaged in some kind of awkward and brief flirtation. She'd let him be her first lover. Why not? Saving herself for Leon wasn't doing anyone any good. It had gone well for a few months and then he'd been sent on assignment some place she couldn't follow and the relationship had dissolved naturally.

And now she was here and he was here and it maybe it was finally time to push it. Maybe it was finally time to lay it all out there.

Last time she'd heard, Ada Wong had been working for the BSAA. She didn't think he'd seen her in awhile. Maybe he had. Maybe they were rocking the bed sheets every night. But it didn't matter. She was going to take her shot. Now or never.

"Let's go for a ride."

And so they did. He was good on a horse, smooth. But he was good at everything so that was no surprise. He rode the animal with the same grace he did everything else. Some women would find that kind of perfection tiring. Sherry found it wonderful.

They rode along the bank of the creek until they reached the place where the old fort still stood. It was built there by Leon and some of the boys that he'd played with growing up. Sherry and her friends had also made a home out of it in her time spent being raised by Gil and Sara. It was a legend, in one hand, the sight of countless imaginative battles and tea parties and sieges.

It was a dilapidated tree house and a couple tire swings. It was sticks and twine and old pieces of rusty cars. It was built by luck and patience and happy kids with big imaginations. It was always worth seeing and coming back to. And kids would continue to play it even after all the world grew up around them.

She slipped onto the tire swing and he began to push her, gently.

"How's things kid?"

"Great." She sighed a little at the beauty of the coming evening. The setting sun had gilded the horizon a burnt yellow and orange. Soon the sky would look like blood and gold. What was life without a little blood and gold? Two precious things.

"Killed any zombies lately?"

He laughed and settled onto the swing beside her. She wondered if anyone else alive had ever seen Leon Kennedy on a tire swing.

"I was planning to do that after dinner."

Sherry pushed her feet against the ground and they swung in silence for a few moments. "What brings you here Leon?"

"I could ask you the same kid."

Sherry shrugged. "I had a break from work. So here I am."

"Same."

And life was too short. So screw it, she thought, and stopped swinging to face him. "How's Ada?"

His swing came to an abrupt stop itself. "What?"

"I said: How's Ada? You know, Ada Wong? Your girlfriend."

He faced her and his expression was priceless. It was both calm and tumultuous at the same time. It was the face of a man who hadn't seen this coming at all. She'd surprised the Iceman. Not many could say the same.

He had many names amongst the community. The Iceman, the Ghost, the Executioner. He was known in circles by different names. But she knew him only as her hero, as her unrequited love. He was the man who'd saved her in Raccoon City, who'd offered her this chance here in Montana to live again. He had stood between death and her in Japan and would again, and again, if she only asked.

"Ada isn't my girlfriend."

"But you want her to be."

He eyed Sherry, trying to find out what her angle was with this conversation. He was a master at reading people, in his job, you had to be. But she had always crossed signals with him. He was never quite sure where she stood.

"It's more complicated than that."

"Doesn't have to be." Sherry slid off her swing. "Do you love her?"

He lifted a brow, studying her face. Where was she going with this? She appeared to be an angry little pixie in tight riding pants. Why was she angry? Had she ever even met Ada?

"I don't know here. Not really. So the question of love is irrelevant."

"Oh stop talking like a robot!" She whipped around, stalking a line back and forth in front of him. He watched her, rather like watching a tiger pace. She was all nerves and energy. It was fascinating.

"What's the real issue here Sherry?"

Sherry shook her head, hard. Stopped, seemed to be thinking something very, very important..or was possibly crazy. He wasn't a girl so he couldn't really figure out what the hell she was thinking in that little head of hers. She turned to him and gave him the evil eye.

"Are you stupid?"

Well that was certainly a loaded question. He had an IQ of 140. He'd been taught by some of the most prolific professors and teachers in the world. He was literate, cognitive, calm and patient, kind, considerate, good in a fight. He was physically impressive – working his body in a rigorous and controlled manner to maintain top physical shape. He was studious and organized and good under pressure. He'd been taught to box and fence and was a crack shot. He could whip the asses of almost anyone in the world in various styles of martial arts. He was a machine, a trained assassin, a natural mediator.

But he had to agree in this moment, he must be stupid. Because he had no idea what she was getting at here.

Sherry moved toward him and every instinct in his body had him wanting to retreat. It was almost laughable. He'd faced down a crocodile the size of a bus, a whole town full of chain saw wielding psychos, a series of creatures from the black lagoon, and the apocalypse…twice. But he was afraid of this little blonde thing that weighed a buck ten soaking wet.

She slipped her hands into his hair and tilted his head back. He went very still, looking up at her from the perch on the swing. Sherry scooped her gloved fingers through his hair and then, irritated, pulled the gloves off and tossed them aside. She wanted to feel if that hair was as soft as it looked.

It was. Silky. It somehow was cut in a way that it simply always looked beautiful and touchable…and untouchable. He was such a contradiction. The vibe of "don't touch" flashed warnings all around him. She wondered if any woman, ever, had gotten passed it. How did someone look like this, like walking sex, and not have women throwing themselves at him?

But maybe he did, she mused. Maybe he had a hundred lovers. A thousand. Maybe he was balls deep in some bimbo every night of the week. What did she really know about him? He wouldn't let anyone, anywhere close enough to find out.

And she knew, knew, it was against his personal code for her to touch him like this. He was stiff, rigid with it while she did. She could practically see him planning his escape.

She brushed a hand through his hair, rubbed a strand of that silky stuff between two fingers. Her hands shifted to trace the five o'clock shadow that graced his cheeks and she bravely whisked one thumb over the plumpness of his lower lip. She watched that gesture turn the blue of his eyes to glacial. She could almost see the armor going up, the Iceman putting up that wall between them.

He started to stand and she tightened her hold on his face, stalling him.

"Sherry." It was said low, with warning.

"Are you stupid?" She asked again. "Are you? I always figured you were too busy. Too blind. Maybe you saw me as your sister. Or, worse, your daughter. But now I think maybe you're just stupid."

He rose now with a jerk and she stepped back from him. Because he didn't look cold, he looked angry.

"Be careful here Sherry. I'll admit I'm not sure where this is coming from. But be careful."

"Or what?" She tilted her head, feeling the hard and fast beat of her heart, "You'll hurt me? You won't. Not me. So your threats don't work here. Answer the question."

He started to turn away and she grabbed his jacketed arm, holding him in place. He looked at her hand with something like shock. What? He didn't think she'd grab him? Didn't he realize she was done being safe?

"You don't get to run. No. Answer me."

"What is this? What do you want?"

Now or never, she thought, torn somewhere between throwing up in nervous fear and running away screaming. Now or never. She stepped toward him, ignoring the alarm bells in her head when he tried to back away, his back bumped up against the willow tree where the tree house dangled, listlessly hanging on with hope and good luck.

She had the Iceman trapped against a tree. She had the Executioner scared like a little girl had been once in the bowels of the police station in Raccoon City. She grabbed handfuls of his collar.

And, stupid or not, he finally saw what was coming. He said, quietly, "Don't."

But it was now or never. She pressed against him, went on tip toe to lift herself up, closed her eyes and moved in.

His mouth was cold, the tip of his nose cool from the coming spring evening. He didn't move, not a muscle. She pressed their lips together, once, twice. And her pounding heart was so loud she could hear it in her ears. Could he? Could he hear it beating?

Sherry didn't give up, she pressed on. She softly pressed her lips to the side of his mouth, the left, and then the right. "Kiss me back. Don't be stupid." She brushed their noses together. "Kiss me back."

Her left hand shifted, slid inside the jacket to brush over the beat of his heart. And it was hard, fast, and nervous. Good, she thought, good. Not so much an iceman after all.

She opened her eyes and his were locked on her, wide, and very, very blue.

"Kiss me back," She said it again, the arches of her feet starting to cramp from too long on point. "Please."

Maybe it was the please. Or maybe it was just feeling sorry for her. Or maybe it was insanity or boredom or guilt. But he cupped her face now and her heart felt like it might explode out of her.

And he kissed her back.

Soft, sweet, and chaste. It was the kiss you might see in a Disney movie. It was a princess and prince and a moonlit summer night. It was gentle. And kind. And something in it made her so angry. And so ashamed. Because he didn't close his eyes when it happened. He didn't sweep her against him and steal her breath.

He just pressed a kiss to her mouth that was almost…brotherly.

Sherry stepped back, pressed a hand to her mouth.

And she didn't like the look on his face. What was that? Sympathy? Regret?

"Don't." She lifted a hand now to him. "You _are_ stupid."

And she turned, leaped onto her horse, and rode back toward the ranch.

Leon blew out a breath of air that puffed white in the waiting cold. Yep. Stupid.

And he muttered, rolling his neck and his eyes to boost the uselessness of it all, "...fucking women."


	9. Chapter 9

**_A/N:_** _Thank you for the support on this little story. This is a the fleshed out version of the original. And, as it was mentioned, maybe some of my most mature stuff to date in terms of feelings and even the lemony stuff. Bring on those reviews, don't be shy. I like hearing the good and the bad. If you're too shy to say it in a review, shoot me a PM. What do you like? What do you dislike? Don't worry about things being a little OOC for some of our folks (Ada - with feelings. Wha? It's for the good of the story. I promise.)_

* * *

 **Chapter 9: Liberation**

* * *

 _"Mired, murdered - she bled and begged. She ached and arched. And waited to feel the cleave of need once more."_

* * *

 **New York, February**

The spirit of Valentines Day was like a noxious gas. It infected and fed off its own misery causing those who came in contact with it to become ill and begin to perish from the infection. The V-virus was to single people what T had been to Raccoon City. But there was no hope of enforced sterilization.

He put another bullet through the head of the fat cherub that was winking at him from the end of the firing range. Cupid was not a fat baby. Nope. He was a handsome, virile, desperate MAN and he was chasing after Psyche – the beautiful, unattainable, BITCH whom he couldn't ever really have. Cupid was an idiot.

Chris put two more through his smiling face for good measure.

"You got something about cherubic babies with wings?"

He met Barry Burton's solemn face as he pulled off his range muffs and slapped them down on the counter in front of him. "Fat bastard. Where's the joy? Somebody else must be getting it all."

Barry leaned one broad shoulder against the booth, studying him.

"You gonna tell me who's under your skin?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Red, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret," Barry crossed his arms over his chest, "I might be a little older then you."

Chris eyed him drolly.

"And I just might know a thing or two about women."

Barry had been married to the same woman for nearly thirty years. It was probable he knew more then a thing or two about women. Although he was something of a work house, the guy seemed to have a steady marriage. His daughters had some problems with him but what kids loved their parents all the time?

Chris sighed a little and shifted. The range was quiet. Of course it was quiet. Everyone was off at dinner with their respective sweeties. He was the only fool lingering behind at the shooting range at eight o'clock on Valentines Day. Well him..and Barry.

"Shouldn't you be home with that wife of yours?"

"We've been together long enough to realize romance don't need a day." Barry moved with him toward the front room of the range. "This about Jill?"

Surprised, Chris eyed him again. "Why would it be? She's still in Thailand on assignment."

"True. I figured you might be missing her."

"I always miss her when she's gone." What was it with people and him and Jill? They weren't a thing. Hadn't been any kind of a thing in a long time. She was his best friend, true, but that's all it was. At least for him. He hadn't thought of her as more than that in a long, long time.

"You seein somebody else?"

"No." And that was true. "There was someone, briefly. But she tossed me out with the garbage a few months ago."

"Ah." He eyed the boy as they slipped on their coats. "You know where she's at tonight?"

"Probably the gala opening for the Kennedy Foundation."

Leon Kennedy had managed to get his father to back the need for proper funding for terrorist torn countries over seas. A foundation had been resurrected to help with refugees and support allocating resources to provide housing and protection. There was a kick off gala for it happening at the Heisemann Gallery in SoHo.

Everyone who was anyone was there. He was betting Ada was there. Probably not alone. Probably not concerned about where he was. And he wanted to be ok with that. He wasn't mad at her, not really. She'd never pretended to be something other then what she was to him. But it didn't mean he'd been ready to let her go.

He still itched to touch her.

"Well then maybe you should be where she is."

"I don't think she wants me there."

"I'm guessing you won't really know unless you go down there and find out."

Chris decided he just might be right. Screw it. At the very least they'd get some closure from each other. If they could at least face each other without it feeling like the great wide world was going to swallow them whole, it would be a start. She had avoided him for months now.

She took her orders from Inga without ever seeing his face. That's what hurt the most. That she couldn't even look him in the eye. She probably thought he was pathetic. A hopeless, hapless romantic that would beg her to come back to him. He hated thinking she just may be right.

Each mile he drove toward the gallery strengthened his anger. He handed his keys to the valet and alighted. He was under dressed in a pair of jeans and his parka. The valet gave him a snooty look as he took the keys.

"The gallery has a dress code sir."

Chris eyed the skinny little shit with the same disdain. "I give a flying fuck about the dress code."

He pushed through the glass doors into the lobby of the big building. The whole thing was an architectural marvel. It was four stories of glass and steel. There was nothing left to the imagination beyond those spotless walls.

The lobby was decorated in red and silver and black, balloons, arrows, twinkling lights and giant red blooms. The place looked like someone had cut themselves and splashed their blood from floor to ceiling. His boots smooshed rose petals beneath them as he moved across the lobby.

A waiter tried to stop him. "Sir! Sir! This is a formal event! You can't come in here dressed like that sir!"

"He can wear anything he damn well pleases."

Chris turned, smiling. Leon crossed toward him looking like a million dollars in a tuxedo that was likely as expensive as some people made in a month. It was black and the vest beneath a splash of blue. His hair was, as always, perfect and his handshake, smooth.

"Chris Redfield."

"Leon. You look like some woman's idea of James Bond."

"You look like you got lost on your way home from Bass Pro Shop."

They embraced, one armed, as men often do. They were like brothers. Their time spent together in China had bonded them together. The former rookie was a helluva fisherman. And a surprisingly fantastic chef.

"Nice turn out."

"My father will be pleased." Leon waived away the next waiter who attempted to comment on the dress code. "Ignore the staff, they mean well."

"I was planning to."

"What brings you here?" He led Chris away from the central part of the lobby. "I didn't expect you."

"I'm looking for someone actually. I won't stay long. God knows what would happen if the wrong people saw me dressed like this."

Leon gestured to someone over his shoulder. "If you're looking for Claire, I saw her upstairs a little while ago. Should I send her down?"

"Sure. If you don't mind."

"Not at all. Would you be more comfortable waiting in the conference area? It's as private as you'll get. Party guests aren't allowed in there."

"Sure. Great. Thanks."

Chris separated himself and stepped into the conference room. It was glass as well but at least the wall between it and the lobby was solid. He settled into one of the wing back chairs and waited.

At the top of the stairs, Leon gently took Claire's elbow and seperated her from the donor's she was so perfectly courting. There was something soft and lovely about her lately. A contentness that looked good on her smooth skin and firey hair.

The blue gown she wore was flattering and beaded, covered in shimmery cloth, and tastefully low cut. The swell of her pretty cleavage enticed the eye and tantalized the senses. She'd come alone, to his surprise, and was cagey about why.

But he said, softly now, "Your brother is downstairs in the conference area."

Claire glanced at his face in surprise. "Why?"

"Hard to say. He seems anxious. He looks a little ragged, Claire. Even for him, he looks burnt out. Is he alright?"

Leon was asking her if her brother was sick. It was written all over his face. She touched the former rookie's arm to comfort him. "He's fine. Broken hearted. But fine. In fact...I know what he needs. Can you excuse me for a minute?"

"Of course."

"Thank you." She moved through the crowed until she found her target. The bitch in red wasn't in red tonight...but she was still a bitch. Chris wasn't getting over her. Not easily. And the question was why.

What had the woman done to ensnare him? Of course, what did she know really? Leon had been chasing the same bitch forever.

Claire corraled her by the display of Ancient Egyptian texts. They studied each other in the low lighting like rivals, or predators, or enemies. They were, of course, all three. Claire's dislike of her was palpable. And it wasn't hidden.

"My brother is downstairs."

Ada held her look, "I see."

"Fix it. Whatever you've done? Fix it. He's a good man. And you don't love him. So, let him go and stop fucking with his world."

The look held and Ada replied, smoothly, "I have let him go. It's him who keeps holding on."

Claire tilted her head a little, "Really? I saw you, Ada. Lingering outside his office the other night. Why didn't you go in? If you were done with him, it was easy enough to face him and open that door. Have you looked him in the eye once since you dropped him like a sack of garbage?"

Ada shifted where she stood. It was the only sign of discomfort. It was the only sign that she was indeed, guilty as charged.

"Advice on dating, Claire? Really? Where is your date for this evening? I'm assuming you never got him to leave the house."

Claire gave her a narrow look. "Different situations, Ada. Entirely. He's traumatized. He's trying. He didn't cut and run like a coward. But that's your MO, after all, you just run when things don't go your way. Once a bitch, always a bitch. Right? No matter who you hurt in the process. What's best for you and fuck the rest. Right?"

Ada shook her head a little. She quirked her mouth and passed by the redhead, saying quietly, "You don't know what you're talking about, Claire. And you're playing a game where the rules are never quite that simple. Be careful what you wish for here, or you might find yourself related to the bitch you so hatefully stand here taunting."

Claire gave her a murderous look. "What? You'd marry my brother just to spite me?"

Ada smiled slyly and winked, "Not just for that...but it would be such a _wonderful_ bonus. Enjoy your evening, Ms. Redfield. And your lonely turns around the dance floor. I'll go see if your brother would like to dance with me..."

She put her mouth to Claire's ear and whispered, "And he can thank you for the pleasure of it. And bringing us back together."

Claire ground her teeth a little as the lithe spy sashayed away. She hated the smugness. She hated, even more, that the woman was right. Chris would take her back, no questions.

And she was right about Piers. He'd stood there half dressed and denied her. After all the gentle prodding. After all the hopeful excitement. He'd denied her.

And they'd had a wicked fight before she'd left to come here. She was still smarting from it.

He'd accused her of wanting to "force him to assimilate with all the normal people."

"Why can't you just accept that I'll never be like you again, Claire!? Why can't you just leave it alone!?"

It broke her heart that he thought she was so callous. That he thought she cared what other people thought. Having him come with her tonight wasn't about the rest of the world. It was about THEM. About her pride in being with him. It was about showing the world that she was proud to have him on her arm.

But his self hatred and panic had defeated him. He was cowering that little house alone again. A back slide she was afraid they might not recover from.

Her brother was downstairs broken hearted, waiting on a woman that would never love him the way he deserved.

His sister was upstairs afraid she was standing here waiting on a man that would never love himself the way he did.

It was a sad day for both of them.

* * *

The door opened after a few moments.

"I'm pretty sure the invite said black tie not black jacket."

He rose and turned. And hated how he felt seeing her there.

She was in black this time, regal, elegant and simple. A sheathe of black that hugged her body and showed her long legs to perfection. One shoulder and arm were laid bare, accented only by a gold bangle on her wrist. The other was encased in the same glorious black cloth. Twists of copper, gold, and silver dangled from her ears.

"I left my penguin suit at home."

"What are you doing here Chris?"

He crossed to her and she held her ground, though he could see retreat all over her pretty face.

"Tell me something…" She waited as he circled around her, like a shark scenting blood. "Do you really like this kinda thing? All these yuppies talking politics and foreign policy."

"I'm very good with foreign policy. And very good with people."

He was very close to her now and she could smell the enticing scent of gun powder and lead. He smelled a bit like fireworks. She hadn't laid eyes on him in so long. She found she was hungry for the sight of him. And her heart hurt a little that he'd done what he'd said he'd do, he let his beard grow in.

It was pleasing, dark, with just a suggestion of gray here and there. Much like his hair that was sprinkled in places with salt and pepper. She wanted to touch it and feel it, and rub her fingers over his chin and remember the texture of it.

"Why are you here Chris?"

"Why else? I wanted to see you."

She wished he'd simply made up a lie. Been flippant. Been anything but honest. His boy scout honesty made the ache in her turn to a nearly painful longing. The more she longed for him, the farther she withdrew.

"You broke the rules."

"No, Ada. We broke the rules. At least own up to your part in it."

"Alright. WE broke the rules. I can't be what you want, surely you see that."

"Don't tell me what I see. And don't tell me what I want."

He was getting angry. And that was good. She could handle this anger. Anger was great. It was predictable, in a way, and easily shut down. She turned on the ice to stop the fire. He could all but feel the chill spreading off her in waves.

"There are plenty of women who would love to be in love with you. I'm not one of them. I'm not a girl who sits around pining for a man, Chris. You know that."

"I know what I felt from you that night, Ada. Who are you fooling? That wasn't fucking. Or maybe it was. Maybe it was fucking. Maybe it was you getting fucked."

"We're done here."

He grabbed her arm, stopped her. "Tell me the truth and I'll stop. This will be the end. And I will never ask you for anything again."

"Alright."

"Tell me you don't want me anymore."

Ada met his eyes, held them. "It doesn't matter if I want you. That was never the problem."

"Tell me why the rules matter so much. Because I don't understand."

She gave him a long, silent look. Something warm and hard was building in her chest. It was a feeling she hadn't entertained in a long, long time. It was something soft and needy and real. And she hated it, hated him for putting it there, and hated herself for knowing it would likely never leave her again.

"I don't want to feel anything for you. Ever. And the more you push at me, the more I don't want to feel it. Stop crowding me. Stop smothering me!"

"You can't smother a person, Ada. You smother a pork chop." He tugged her a little toward him. She let him. Her hand slid against the smooth puff of the coat he wore. "It wasn't me groping you like a horny teenager in that elevator, Ada. There were TWO of us doing the smothering."

The fact that he was right was the final straw. She grabbed his jacket and shook him. "You grew your fucking beard out, you idiot."

"You asked me to!" He sounded exasperated.

"I know…I know! And I hate you for it." She turned into him as he jerked her into his arms. Hers came up to loop around his neck. The parka rushed smooth and soft between them. She felt his beard beneath her fingers, felt the brush of the sock hat he wore.

She studied him from inches away. The hard planes of his face. The soft spill of his lashes. How to explain it? How to make him see it? Finally, she tilted him down to her and whispered, "What will it take to show you? What?"

He wanted to feel her. Just a little. He unzipped the parka to pull the lithe line of her into the heat of it and against his body. They both shivered with the joy of it. What would it take, he wondered, to make him not want her anymore?

His hands slid down her back and over the curve of her bottom. He tugged her into him to rub against her and watched her face flush with the feeling of it. She hadn't let go of his face.

She finally breathed, "Ok. I'll show you. This. This is why we can't."

"What is?"

It was a bit like a deer in the headlights. He, literally, froze as she nudged his nose with hers. The soft press of her lips to his nearly killed him. The flutter of expectation trembled between them and he made a little sound.

She nuzzled again, waiting.

And it was enough waiting.

His hands shifted to take her tightly to him and his mouth plunged. She opened, surging to meet him, and they both made little hungry noises as they engaged in the greatest battle of tongues, lips, teeth, and taking that two people had ever waged.

He stole her breath with the kiss. They merged together, his thumbs bracketing her face, the dangle of her earrings cool against his hands.

It went on for several seconds before she drew away. They locked eyes for a long, tense moment. "This is why we can't. Do you understand?"

"I understand I can't really breathe without wanting you…Ada…tell me you don't feel the same." He nipped her swollen lips after he spoke, ensnaring her in a tangled web of want for him.

"I don't want to want you, Chris. Why can't you understand that?"

They kissed again, wet, smooth, needy. It was nearly desperate.

"I have to say goodbye. I have to."

"Ok. Ok. In a minute…Just…" He lifted her, set her down on the table; his hands scooped her hair back from her face. His mouth and hers fused, retreated, fused again. Both of their eyes stayed locked. "What scares you the most here, Ada?"

"That you'll make me crave something that I know I don't want. I'm not the type who falls in love and gets married and raises babies, Chris. You know that."

"You think I am?"

"Yes. I think you are. I think you are indeed. I think you are desperate for it. I can't be that for you, Chris. I'm sorry."

"Can't? Or won't?"

"Fine...I _won't_ be. It's not who I am. This kind of love affair? It's not what I want."

It should have sounded crazy but it made sense. He didn't want this either. Not this. This was obsession or something worse. It was a Harlequin romance novel. It was endless nights spent lost in each other. It was something too…full. And both of them had just been seeking something empty.

"I don't care about any of that right now. Come home with me." She hated the raw need that spilled through her body and coveted it. It had been so long since a man had burned her up like this. Part of her hungered for that. Not the emotion of it but the raw, painful, nearly mindless greed of sheer lust.

"Ada…come home with me."

His hands slid under the dress, over the thigh highs, over her hips. "Say yes."

"Chris…"

"Say yes."

Her hands skimmed his beard. The beard he'd grown for her. "Yes."

It was the wrong move here. Wrong. She was never a woman given to wrong moves. But she wanted to go home with him.

She just didn't know what it would mean when she did.

* * *

The door wasn't even locked when Claire came home.

He was sitting in the kitchen with a bottle of vodka on the table. No glass. Just the bottle.

She leaned on the frame of the kitchen door and watched him. "What are you doing, Piers?"

He glanced up from the table, "Isn't it obvious? I'm drowning my sorrows."

They held eyes in the dark. "What sorrows?"

The silence dragged out after her question. Somewhere in the little house, the clock gonged the hour. Claire jumped from the sound. Piers didn't.

But he did answer her, "The ones that come from knowing I'll never be what you want."

"Don't be stupid, Piers. You're just not ready. Don't be stupid here."

"Too late. Already stupid. It was stupid to think this would work right? Right? You need a guy who can take you to a fancy party, Claire. I can't."

Claire turned away to get a bottle of water from the fridge. Her heart was galloping in fear of this conversation. She had to be soooo careful here. He was in a delicate place.

"You mean you won't, Piers. Not can't. WON'T."

"...fine. Won't. Why would I? People would cringe if they saw us together. People would judge. You think I can stand there beside a woman like you and ever compare? I'm not good enough for you. I'm a fucking disgrace. Pitiful. A wreck. I'm trapped in this house like a fucking monster...you just have to deal with it."

She turned back to face him. The moonlight spilled silver over his ravaged face. He looked so broken. How did she fix this? It was handling a bomb with kid gloves. Every word mattered here.

"There's no comparison. And the only shame would be yours. I'm proud of you. I'm thrilled to be with you. I love you."

He jerked, shaking his head.

"Yeah. I love you, Piers. I do. So..." She took her water bottle and moved toward the hallway, "That's just how it is. And that's something that YOU just have to deal it. Come to bed when you're done pouting. And don't forget to lock up."

He sat in the dark and watched her until she was lost to the shadows.

And he was desperately afraid of the truth that waited in that bedroom.

Because he'd loved her from the moment she'd stepped into that gym.

And he was terrified that he would never be the kind of man she deserved. And that she'd always wonder what she might have had...if she hadn't settled for the cripple that had saved her brother.

He picked up the bottle of vodka...and took a long pull.

* * *

Leon Kennedy sat alone in his loft, swirling a highball filled with scotch.

Damnit.

Double damnit.

Why hadn't he seen that coming with Sherry? Why hadn't he known? Of course it all made sense now. And the last thirteen years replayed in his head like a movie. Of course she'd idolize him. Why not? He'd rescued her, helped her, and been there while she turned from girl to woman. She simply saw him through rose colored glasses.

She didn't really want him. He was far too old for her. Far too…

And he paused, considering. Was she right after all? Was he stupid? She'd come to him and bared her soul and he'd…what? Pushed her away?

Why?

Logically, yes, he was older. But it wasn't obscene. It wasn't even obscure. Not even a decade. And she was a beautiful woman. Why had he never looked at her before and seen that? Would she forever be twelve years old in his mind? Would she always be little Sherry Birkin who'd crawled through the ducts of the RPD and managed to keep herself alive?

Leon studied the skyline and the ample bosom of the night beyond. The bedroom was huge and over looked by a skylight. It was one wide open area with a bathroom off to one side. He'd designed it that way…in case he needed to confront an enemy in it. There were no places for someone to hide where he couldn't kill them.

He divested himself of his clothes and climbed into the claw foot tab in the bathroom. He pulled the curtain and washed the party from his body. He had come straight here from the fundraiser. He was tired of being polite, taxed out on platitudes, and angry at himself.

How had he been so blind?

Maybe he could talk to her about it at dinner. Maybe he could explain. Maybe if they just laid it all out there she'd realize that he wasn't for her. He was too…damaged. Too used up. He was old and broken and had spent most of his life pining for a woman who didn't even realize he was alive. So was he stupid? Yeah, he kinda was.

It was something he shared with Redfield, it seemed.

Because he'd seen them in conference room. At first, nothing to really pull the eye...and then? The arguing. Animated. Shouting. Ada showing more emotion than he'd ever seen from her.

And Redfield?

Redfield had put his arms around her and kissed her.

In the whole of his life, Leon figured there was a handful of things that shocked him. The first zombie he'd ever seen. The first time a woman had put her mouth on his dick. The first time he'd killed a man in cold blood.

And Ada Wong locked in a heated embrace with Chris Redfield.

He wasn't sure how he felt about it, honestly.

He waited for the pain. But he was surprisingly passe about it.

He was not, however, passe about his anger at Sherry. At Sherry? Or FOR Sherry?

An interesting conundrum.

He climbed from the shower and toweled off his hair, draping the towel around his hips as he moved over to swipe a hand over the foggy mirror and look at himself. He hadn't shaved in weeks and still had only the finest amount of a shadow of stubble on his face. He couldn't grow a beard. Not a full one. Never had been able to. He pushed his wet hair back until it appeared short and cropped close to his head. Wet, the blonde was very dark.

His body was disciplined, well honed. He had a washboard stomach and well defined arms and shoulders. He was lean, wirey. It was a runners build. A boxer. A swimmer. He was bred for agility and speed. His chest was smooth and hairless and had always been. He supposed he could see what a woman might want in him. He was classically handsome.

And he was, to Ada Wong, apparently what Sherry had been to him.

He was so busy looking in another direction he'd failed to see what was right there in front of him. Had she loved him all this time? Surely it was puppy love. A little girl to the boy who'd rescued her. Surely.

He stepped from the bathroom and there she was. Shock froze him on the spot.

"Sherry."

Good, she thought, he was already naked. That would make this easier. And she nearly swallowed her tongue at the sight of him there naked but for that towel and beaded with droplets of water. If she started touching him, she wondered if she'd ever stop.

"I decided I like stupid."

His pulse sped up.

And Sherry Birkin became the first person in history to "get the drop" on Leon Kennedy.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10: Impregnation**

* * *

 _"Turning, yearning, she doused herself in learning - and the latent burn of his final possession."_

* * *

 **New York, February**

Leon's pulse sped up.

"We should talk. Go wait downstairs. I'll get dressed and be right down."

"No." She lifted her hands and undid the zipper of her coat. She tossed it on the bed. He could taste his pulse now in his mouth. "I like talking like this. No more secrets. No bull shit."

"Sherry, I'm naked."

"Yeah. I can see that." She lifted her hands again and undid the buttons on her creamy camels hair duster. Underneath it she wore a camisole, silky, lacey and very lady like. He wondered why it made his mouth dry to see it. "I like to be fair."

She tossed the coat on the floor and took off her boots, leaving them where they lie.

"Sherry. Don't."

"I decided I like stupid," She repeated and unzipped the little jeans she wore, peeling them down her legs. "Ada Wong, she doesn't like stupid apparently. Maybe she likes smart. Maybe she likes smart like my Dad was. But me?" She lifted her hands and slid the straps of the camisole down her arms, slowly, "I like stupid in a man."

The camisole slid to the floor in a whisper of cloth. "I figure her loss is my gain."

She stood there in tiny white panties and faced him, unabashed. She was slim, petite, and athletic. He build was small, yes, but there was nothing little girl about it. The little girl had become a beautiful, intoxicating woman.

She slid those tiny panties down her legs, slowly, tauntingly. And her beautiful blue eyes challenged him. Naked, she was a goddess. A sprite. A fairy sent to tempt him into things he shouldn't, couldn't, wouldn't ever do.

"Be fair, Leon. Lose the towel."

He met her eyes, held them. The tense moment drug on and she felt like she'd pass out from the fear of waiting for him to run away. Now or never, she thought, and knew at least she'd laid it all on the line.

And he was tired of second guessing himself. And even more tired of thinking about doing the right thing.

He figured now he'd either call her bluff..or put them both on a path that ended somewhere scary and sharp and rocky.

He was done playing nice.

"I tend to think of myself as a fair negotiator." His voice was utterly calm, almost empty, "Give a little…get a little."

And he dropped the towel.

Oh, her heart. It tried to lodge in her throat and choke her to death. But she whispered, "You expect me to run away?"

"No." He watched her, predatory, dark... **delicious**. That was his thing too, she thought, the killer in him. It stalked her now like an animal as her breath came short and choppy with want...and a little bit of fear.

"Your move, Sherry. How stupid are _you_?"

Oh, god...she couldn't think of any thing she'd ever wanted more in her life than Leon Kennedy.

She moved, he moved. They met with a slap of skin at the side of the bed. He lifted her and dumped her back on the bed.

Nothing calm in this kiss, it was feral. It was hungry and fast.

She barely caught her breath between each plunge of his tongue and the answer of her own. She couldn't find a thought, couldn't keep a feeling. It was all storm and rage and rolling thunder. There was no thought to it, no reason, and no waiting.

Leon mounted the bed on his knees, she opened hers, his hands grabbed her hips to jerk her up toward him. Sherry's breath fell out in a desperate cry. Her hands grabbed his wrists and braced for it.

The look on him...was some kind of possession she craved.

His body slid against the wet of hers. Sherry panted, grunted a little like a rutting thing, and her thighs quivered.

Part of her thought, wildly, that they should get protection, use protection, use something.

But the only thing he used...was her.

He drove himself inside of her with one fast, hard, deep thrust. She came apart, her cry caught by his devouring mouth. And they surged together, found a rhythm that maddened and merged. No thoughts were left, only feeling. The raw, dirty, rugged touch of flesh and fevered mouths filled the silence. It was broken only by the wet, fluid movement of man and woman.

They rolled, rolled again. They mated, lost in the feeling of fire and blood. He couldn't remember the last woman he'd had, couldn't remember the last time his body had felt like nothing more than greed and needy lust. She echoed it, feeling nothing but the taste, the touch, the madness of him and spurring him toward more.

He poured himself through her, into her, pinning her to the bed with each thrust of himself inside of her. She arched, taking him, forcing him faster, harder, deeper until they both exploded together in a shower of skin and need.

She felt him roll away from her and lay there, panting. The room was cool now on the sweaty skin of her body.

They lay side by side, staring up at the skylight.

"Maybe not so stupid after all," She said into the silence.

He rolled his head, looked at her, she met his eyes.

And she added, "Although I think you fucked _me_ stupid."

Their mouths quirked with smiles, and they both started to laugh.

* * *

Later found Chris and Ada in his apartment. The fireplace flickered lovely red light across the shiny mahogany floors.

The moonlight shimmered, beautiful and pale, a ghostly promise of something sensual and fine. His fingers over hers, guiding, sliding. He danced them across the ivory keys and helped her coax the piano into Chopin's gentle and beautiful Nocturne No. 2. She played it with natural ability, picking up the tune and trade with a master's skill.

After all, she'd been raised in the world of learning things in an instant. And she'd always had a photographic memory.

Afterward, he went immediately into something so haunting, so beautiful, so sad that she felt herself shiver and curl back against his chest. His lips teased gently at one of her ears that still dangled her earring.

She traced the veins on the back of one of his hands as he played, effortlessly. The press of the muscles in his arms against her as he shifted nearly comforted as it aroused. She turned, just a little, one hand shifting to playfully stroke the gentle sprinkling of hair on his chest.

The beautiful song came to a slow, slow end. And she met his eyes in the moonlight.

"Who was that?"

"That was my mother's. A Redfield original. She used to sing it to us at bedtime. Or when we were lost and sad. When...she passed away.." He shifted his eyes a little to the window over her shoulder. It was the only outward sign of the pain talking about her still caused him, after all these years, "...when she was gone...I sang it to Claire...She couldn't sleep. She'd cry and panic. It was the only thing that worked to soothe her."

"You sang to your sister?"

He shrugged a little. "She was so young. It was hard for her."

It was hard for the sister. The little girl. The lost little girl.

And the scared teenager who'd tried so hard to raise her. HE didn't say it was hard for him. Only for Claire. He denied his own pain to protect his sister.

He was such a **mystery**.

Ada hated the shift inside of her. Hated _him_ even as she wanted him and she let that want spill into eyes as she looked at him. This man who excited and thrilled and aroused and confused her. This man with so many wonderful layers to peel away and still to never find the center.

"Who are you?" And it was spoken so softly in the darkness.

Her knees were pulled up to her chest and one of his hands ran down the length of her shin, the other cupping her face. "I'm me. I don't know who else to be."

She leaned toward him and laid her head on his shoulder. It was so much more than anything else. So much harder to resist then the taste of her or the press of her beautiful body. That gesture meant more than the spread of another woman's thighs. He knew and she knew, what that gestured meant, what it cost…and both of them wondered if the price would simply be too high.

She should go. She shouldn't be here. But there were three thousand things about him she wanted to know. She wanted to know about the parents that made a man so diverse and complex. But she didn't want to go.

She whispered, "Show me your mother."

And felt him tremble, just a little, with a kind of grief she couldn't understand. To still love someone, after all this time, enough to grieve them like they'd just died.

What kind of love was that?

And why did she want to know it?

His fingers shifted to the keys and began again to play. This time the song was Supermarket Flowers by Ed Sheeran. He spoke low and soft, soothing somehow, "Not my song...but the words...the words are right.. with a little tweaking anyway..."

And then he started to sing, quietly, softly. His voice was a rich, low tenor.

 _"I took the supermarket flowers from the windowsill_  
 _I threw the day old tea from the cup_  
 _Packed up the photo album that Claire had made_  
 _Memories of a life that's been loved.."_

Her mouth shifted...just a little...and pressed a kiss to his collarbone. A single gesture that meant more than anything else in the world.

 _"Took the get well soon cards and stuffed animals_  
 _Poured the old ginger beer down the sink_  
 _Dad always told me, "don't you cry when you're down"_  
 _But mom, there's a tear every time that I blink.._ "

It had been a long time since something had struck such a long chord inside of her. She wasn't sure what it meant, for either of them. She knew only two things.

 _"Oh I'm in pieces, it's tearing me up, but I know_  
 _A heart that's broke is a heart that's been loved..."_

 **One** – that she should walk away. That he should. That this was something best left in the darkness of the night. That nothing like this ever lasted. And it wouldn't, couldn't, end well for either of them.

 _"So I'll sing Hallelujah_  
 _You were an angel in the shape of my mum_  
 _When I fell down you'd be there holding me up_  
 _Spread your wings as you go_  
 _And when God takes you back we'll say Hallelujah_  
 _You're home"_

And **Two** – She wasn't going to run. Because she wanted to hear the end of the song. And because she wanted to keep touching the man playing it.

 _"I hope that I see the world as you did cause I know_  
 _A life with love is a life that's been lived.."_

And part of her? Wanted to know the kind of love that spawned a man that grieved people who'd died decades before and raised a girl that needed him to sing her to sleep at night. The kind of man who raised a girl...that stood between him and the world like a flame haired protectress, ready to strike back anyone that wanted to cause him pain.

What kind of love was that?

And why was she terrified to feel it...even as part of her craved to share in it? Just for a moment...just for...a _song._

 _"Hallelujah_  
 _You were an angel in the shape of my mom_  
 _You got to see the person that I have become_  
 _Spread your wings_  
 _And I know that when God took you back he said Hallelujah_  
 _You're home..."_

Ada waited until the music ended. The quiet breathed around them. And, finally, she said softly, "You are a good man, Chris Redfield."

He glanced down at her face. When she didn't look up at him, he angled her jaw to see her eyes. There was a softness on her that was nothing he'd seen before. Hell, he thought, if he'd known a little tribute to his mother was going to turn her to goop and mush, he'd have played it the first time they'd met.

She turned her mouth to his and pressed, smooth and soft. Her earrings tinkled musically.

His thumb swept her mouth, "What do you want from me, Ada?"

Their eyes held. Her mouth dipped, sipped sweetly at his. And she said, "Play me something else, Chris Redfield. Give me your music."

Without looking beyond her eyes, he did just that.

And he kissed her while the music rolled around them.

It was a good kiss. Maybe the first real kiss between them.

Because it was the first one that she didn't try to resist. It was the first one she offered without restraint.

After it ended, she stroked a thumb over his chin. There was nothing painful on his face. Nothing raw. Just a softness that she was drawn to, like a moth to a flame.

No...like a _butterfly._ Was it that simple? Was the butterfly in her drawn to his flame? The moniker had always suited her. The butterfly: the symbol of power and spirit; the symbol of passion and promise. It had always suited who she wanted to become. She was always moving from one flower to the next and reaping the rewards of a brief, profitable, and fortuitous landing.

She'd never applied it before to her love life. Not until this moment.

Was her landing here, with him, meant to be brief?

Ada slid from the bench. Chris tracked her movement, spinning on the bench until he faced her. Standing, with him sitting, she was taller.

Her hands brushed his hair back from his face and gripped it, tightly, holding his gaze for a long moment. She pressed a kiss to his mouth and asked, "What do you want from me, Chris?"

He smiled, gently, and their mouths kissed, delicately, eyes open and watching the other.

But he didn't answer.

She gripped the hem of his shirt and divested him of it. His hands worked the zipper on her dress and let it fall to the floor with ruffle of expensive cloth.

A lady, as always, she wore thigh highs and a garter with a corset and panties in bold red. Red beneath the black of her dress. Red. The strapless corset lifted the pleasure of her small breasts to maximum advantage.

His fingers played at the links of the corset, a smile tickling around his mouth. "Ada...you are so slim. Why bother to wear a corset at all?"

She smiled back, tracking her nails against his nipples until they peaked for her. His breath fell out in an excited quiver of air. "A lady wears many things beneath her gown, Christopher. Didn't you know that?"

"Ada..." His fingers flicked and tugged until the corset joined the dress in a heap on the floor. And those fingers? They spread against her skin to smooth and knead. He was easing the tension on her skin from the tight device.

Touched, she rose and let him. Her fingers traced his beard as he touched her, almost delicately, sweetly.

He helped himself to her breasts while he worked, lifting and stroking her, almost medically, almost impersonally...until his hand would shift, just a little, just a touch...and his thumbs would stroke her nipples while they dimpled for him. His face was so very soft, as his touch was, as his beard was. Soft, she thought desperately, the whole moment of it. Soft.

Her hands fisted in his hair. She tugged and he rose.

His hands slid down her back and into her tiny panties. He cupped the curve of her buttocks in his big hands and stole her breath as he drew her into his body. The smooth touch of her to the tickle of hair on his chest delighted them both.

Her arms curled around him, like a cat that nearly purred, she was feline and feminine in her submission. It aroused even as it raised their hair on his body in answer to the call of her skin.

The layers of clothing seemed to melt. The whisper of cloth and breath, the gasp of excitement, the spill of flesh and fingers as they tumbled to the soft down comforter on his bed.

They rolled once, kissing, hands stroking and smooth.

Her legs opened as he settled between - an age old ritual, the most natural thing, a woman and a man and a surrender. But not hers, not entirely, THEIRS. Because there was power in being conquered and power in surrender. It took strength to do both.

They both surrendered, maybe for the first time ever, to a battle they hadn't even known they were fighting. It was a moment as surprising as it was precious for neither had ever before relented, to anyone or anything, even near death. The victory was won for both even as the battle was lost together.

His hands scooped, pulling hers above her head. Their fingers interlocked, linking together to blend in perfect unison.

She wanted to see him, she realized, and watch him while they merged. And this was a first for her as well.

He shifted, lifted, and she spoke, softly, "Chris?"

His eyes opened to find her watching him. His jaw lowered, his head tilted just a little. His heart sped up in his chest as he realized that one word had the power to change everything. He'd always enjoyed his name from her lips. But this time? It had something more powerful than a bullet in the heart. It was almost...pleading.

She breathed, softly. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts, watched the moonlight on the pale stretch of her collarbone and the soft part of her lips. And he held her eyes as he slid inside of her.

Those eyes hooded, her lips opened on a smooth gasp, and her feet slid against his calves as her thighs opened wider to receive him.

He dropped his mouth to kiss her as he slid out and into her again. The warmth of her embraced him, slick and hot around the length of his need as it claimed her, as she claimed him.

She realized what the difference was as their eyes stayed locked, as their bodies slid together and apart, as their breath merged with tongue and lips and lazy need...this was lovemaking. It was smooth and slow, soft and sensual, it was all passion and pleasure.

It was love.

She'd known, in moments of listening to him, that he was full of love. It fairly bled from his body and from his mouth when he spoke or breathed. It was part of who he was, in his bones, in his guts, in his eyes. He was a man raised on it, bred from him, built for it. A fighter, yes. But a lover too.

A lover. Who'd raised a girl that was his sister and built a company from the seeds of betrayal from a mentor and saved the world from a corporation that tried to bring his world down in infection and death. A fighter...who fought for love.

A lover who used tenderness to win the fight without even trying.

He shifted, his hands sliding from hers. His hands cupped her face, hers slid over the impossible girth of his biceps to grip, the angle sharpened, the plunge of his body increased. The tender edge turned raw with hunger.

Her hands slid down the corrugated sides of his ribcage, over the sharp jut of his hips, and around to grip his muscled backside as he plunged relentlessly between her legs. The wet sounds of their completion were nearly musical in the quiet dark.

He pulled her chin up, angling it there with his thumbs beneath to anchor them both, and keep her eyes on his. Her lashes fluttered, her lips parting for the taste of his mouth. And his eyes flickered in response.

Ada breathed, "No..please. Please."

Jesus. She was begging him not to look away.

There was no greater moment than the victory of that.

Chris dropped his mouth, pressed it to hers, and answered her need with his own, "Ada...I love you."

Her heart stopped. It drove a gasp from her mouth that was absorbed by his, his body hit the spot in her that brought her to the edge and sent her spinning, and she came apart with a bow of her back and a clench of her body around his. His hand shot down between them, found the wet heat of her, and stroked her mercilessly as she came, pushing her needy body into the clutches of a release so powerful it had her body spasming like a seizure in his arms.

From chattering teeth, she rasped, "Oh, god."

And his his hands shifted, angled her hips to him, and pushed so deeply into her body that it caused her to jerk as if she'd touched an electrical current. Her nails dug into his ass, her muscles quivered, and Chris grunted. Just once. Just a little. The only sound he'd made besides his avid confession of love. It was poignant somehow, underlining the need of him for her, even as he pumped her full of his release.

He collapsed atop her, her arms and legs sealed around him, and they trembled together - clinging.

Against her ear, Chris whispered, "I love you, Ada. Don't run."

She smiled into the lingering dark above them. Her face nuzzled his until it lifted.

Their eyes locked.

Ada answered, softly, "Chris...I won't run."

For a butterfly, it was almost like I **love** you.

* * *

Claire put her hand out again, "Come out the front door. Just into the yard. Please?"

"Stop pushing, Claire. Ok? I left the fucking hospital. I did that...please...just stop pushing..."

She hesitated, watching the kids across the street playing in the snow.

He was in a sweater, covered from toes to nose. He was just hazel eyes over the turtleneck he wore in pale red. She gave him a narrow look.

"Get up and walk over here, Piers. I mean it. Do it, or I'll drag you off that couch and throw you out this door."

He eyed her gruffly. His stubbornness was rivaled only by her idiot brother.

What was it written in the rules that you had to be as hardheaded as a mule to be in the BSAA!?

"You wouldn't dare. You don't have the balls for it, sweetheart."

Oh. OH. He had CLEARLY never met a Redfield.

There was a scuffle of sound. Someone shouted. There was a clunk. A thunk.

A clatter.

The kids in the snow stopped to stare at the noise.

Screaming. A shriek.

The front door was thrown open.

...and Piers Nivas came flying out of the house like he'd been kicked by a horse.

Maybe he had been.

She didn't have the balls, no...but she had the strength.

He hit the railing on the porch, teetered, and spilled over it to land in the snow on his ass. The fluffy white poofed up around him in a cloud.

The kids in the neighboring yard stood there blinking. The smallest one, a girl in a pink coat and hat, called, "You o'tay?"

Piers, soaked and cold, bested by a skinny redhead with a heavy kick, lifted his hand to give her a thumbs up. The little girl grinned a little. "You gots beat by a girl."

Annnnnd his shame was complete.

He felt his face split into a big grin. "Looks that way."

The bigger kid, the boy, called out to him under his camouflage beanie cap, "You in the army?"

Piers tilted his head, still ass deep in snow, "Kinda. Why?"

"I heard you killed bad guys and got blowed up."

Amused, Piers laughed lightly, "Something like that."

"That stinks. But at least you got some cool scars huh? So, everyone knows you're the toughest."

The little girl nodded in agreement with her brother. "Oh yeah! A WARRIOR!"

Piers felt something in his chest release a little. He grinned at them. "I am...I am indeed. Know what else?"

They shook their heads, looking star struck a little. He grabbed a handful of snow.

"I am also the warrior...of snowball fighting."

In the house, Claire heard the shrieking laughter.

She shifted to the window.

He was launching missles at the neighbor's kids. They were screaming for cover and firing back at him. The little girl shrieked, "HERE HE COMES! HIIIIIDE!"

And her heart? It swelled like the Grinch at the sight of them. Three sizes too big for her chest.

She leaned against the glass, watching.

And let the hope settle in her belly like a warm drink on the very, very, very cold day.

Outside, in the snow, the ravaged warrior of the snowball fights was scaling the tower made by two little children...and he'd never looked so **perfect** doing it.

Her hand lowered, shaking a little, and settled over the flat expanse of her belly.

And the woman who never showed fear, trembled a little, as she felt the first stirrings of real hope - and **something** wonderful inside.

* * *

 **Russia, February**

"The first phase is complete. We...are ready...for the trial."

Laughter, light and sweet. Syrupy. Scary.

Scary.

SCARY.

"Good. GOOD. Get me the roster again. Get me the names."

"Which ones?"

"The ones from the beginning. The ones that are left. The ones from the birthplace."

"...Raccoon City?"

"Yes...YES. The ones...FROM RACCOON CITY."

Somewhere in the darkness, someone had started to scream.

It filled the quiet room and was answered by the laughter that followed.

And the beginning...of the **GAME**.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11: Extrication**

* * *

 _"Swept aside, swept away, swept along…sweeping, steeping, stopping…she couldn't hold on."_

* * *

 **New York, March**

There was nothing quite like the salt of the sea air on your waiting skin. It was a mouthful of delight. It freed the flesh and the lungs and the soul. She didn't like to be dramatic about it but it made her feel wondrous to stand on the bow of such a beautiful boat and appreciate the ocean before her.

The Nemesis cruised to dock and waited, patiently, as Chris leapt ashore to tie her down. She was his pride and joy. His first purchase after Raccoon City. His first investment. And every inch of her had been done by him. If she'd come from his loins, she couldn't have mattered more.

He helped Ada off the deck and they started up the pier toward land. It was his one release, his one weakness, the sea…her siren song tempted him, taunted him, called to him. He knew the promise of her embrace as if she were a lover. Sometimes the separation from her was nearly painful. He knew he could have been no more than a fisherman and died a happy man.

And he felt her absence now as they moved toward his truck.

Duty called, it seemed, and it wouldn't wait for him to feel the continuous sting of love denied. Part of him wanted to turn and wave, bidding adieu to the only mistress that had ever really laid claim to his soul.

At the truck, he backed Ada up against the door. The cold metal taunted her even through her warm sweater and coat. Open eyed, they kissed, tasting the salt of the sea on each other's lips. It seemed he was wrong again. There was something that tasted better then sea air. It was sea air on the lips of Ada Wong.

She brushed a hand over his beard. It was carefully maintained and very, very sexy. The fullness of it excited her. He kissed her palm and turned his head into the touch. Such a small thing and so surprising to still feel it like a caress on places so much softer.

And still, still…the sadness in him. So deep and wide. So terrible. She wondered if he'd ever share it, ever sacrifice it, ever over come it. What did you lose? She wondered. And how can we find it again?

Over dinner, in the soft glow of the candle light, she asked him, "Will you tell me…about it?"

And she felt the sadness again and the grief. And the horror. And linked her hand to his atop the table.

The words were slow at first and halting. He spoke of her, but not her, and the betrayal. He mentioned the loss of his team, men he'd considered friends, men he'd led to their deaths. He spoke of the moment of watching them die, screaming. He spoke of her, her doppelganger Carla, and the treachery. The grief that had followed, the drinking, the drugs.

She offered no judgement, no condemnation. She only sat, and listened.

He spoke of Piers, the boy who'd emulated him, the boy who'd followed him to his near demise. He spoke of his connection to Claire and how it humbled even as it scared the boy who wanted to save his sister from the rejection that came with loving "a broken man."

Did he see himself as broken?

It was a curious thing, as she'd never met a man less broken. He was stitched together in places, this was true. He was a patchwork of feelings, of pain and survival, and fight. FIGHT. He was fight. He simply didn't know how to give up. It wasn't in his bones.

That change, the fight, the loss that had come with his bad decisions, his mistakes - they haunted him. He spoke of Jill and the journey to find her. He spoke of the monsters and the mutilations. He spoke of Raccoon City and the mansion. He spoke of Wesker. And the rage was so fine, so white hot, so real. She wondered if he'd ever leave it behind.

He spoke of the sea. The promise of her. The beauty. And the peace.

He spoke of peace the way some men would speak of a lover. It was something he coveted, hungered for, something he craved. He wanted only peace now. And knew it was not to be. Not for him. He was a warrior, a hero, and the hero didn't get peace. The hero only found release in death.

And Ada could see his death in his eyes. Part of him had died in Edonia. It had died first in Raccoon City. It had come back stronger and sharper, better and faster. But Edonia...his men...and the mess of the mission he'd led in China...that part was still on life support. It was still dying. The part that had believed that through it all, under everything, good always wins. It had made him stronger, faster, tougher, meaner…and killed something of the man he'd been. There were no rainbows here, no starry skies, no secret happy endings. There was only revenge and vengeance and justice.

And Chris Redfield saw himself as an instrument of that justice.

Later, they lay in bed, her head on his chest, his fingers stroking carelessly though her hair.

Such a complex man. Had she really stood there the first time they'd met and judged him as simple? Just another meathead, a jock, an idiot with a gun and no brains.

She was rarely so wrong in her judgement. It was the first time she realized she wanted to give him...something. Something. For what he'd given her so freely. She wanted to give him, just a little, of the truth.

So, she did something she'd never done with a man, she opened her mouth and started to tell him her own story.

Her soft voice startled him a little as they'd been lying together in such peace. When he realized what she was doing, he went soft in her arms like she'd stroked him and soothed him.

This is what truth did, she thought, it bonded you. And her honesty was healing him as she spoke, "...I was born Jingmei Zhao. To a family that already had a daughter. To my father...I was never going to be more than a burden..."

Each word, it eased from her mouth like a story she told about another. It was easier than she'd thought to speak of it. Easier, because she knew there was no judgement here, from him. He was a good man. A good man without any designs on her past.

Just a man that had offered a spy a chance to be something better.

So she gave him her truth...and let him be the first person to ever begin to know...Ada Wong.

The little girl abandoned in the street. The Chinese equivalent of one more useless daughter. She'd learned to grift, to steal, she'd lived out of trash cans and slept in gutters.

The dice games were popular places to find prey. She never went to bed hungry. She always found a way to put some food in her belly.

A man had come when she was about ten. A faceless man. A blonde man with sunglasses that reflected the world. And she'd been taken away.

There was training, training, training. They'd tested and tortured and molded her. She'd been nothing more than another weapon. And she'd emerged as someone else, someone they could use to further their own interests.

She'd become Ada Wong.

She set about gathering all the wealth and notoriety she could handle. She'd bled for it, lied for it, fought for it. She knew it would lead to eventually destroying the man who'd made her. She knew it would end in fire and blood. And she had learned patience and cultivated her own sense of time.

He rolled a little, settled himself between her legs, stacked his hands on the smoothness of her belly, laid his chin atop those hands and watched her face. She stroked his hair as she spoke, almost dispassionately, as if telling the tale of someone else.

She told him of some of the things she'd done. Those she'd betrayed, those she'd left behind. She told of betrayal and missions completed at the great cost of her own dignity. She spoke of proving herself, of proving she needed no one, nothing, and would never regret any of it.

"None of it?"

"No. Regret implies I'd change it. And I wouldn't. It's me. Good and bad."

He rolled onto his back and she sat up, his head now in her lap. She leaned over him and pressed her mouth to his, upside down.

"Good or bad," He said with a smile, "Here we are."

"Here we are."

"I wouldn't change any of it either, Ada. How could I? It all brought me to you."

She pressed her forehead to his and closed her eyes. Didn't he understand? Didn't he see what this was? What it had to be? This had to be the end. She'd told him about herself, she'd told him the truth. It was her parting gift to him.

Had to be. Because she'd broken her own rules. She was so in love with him. She was so desperately in love with him. And he was so hurt, so wounded, so lost. He needed a woman that could help him, heal him, hold him at night and promise to fight beside him. He needed a wife, a partner, a mother to his children.

And she would never be any of those things.

She thought, maybe deep down, he'd always known that.

One tear slipped out of the corner of her eye and slid down to spill onto his cheek. He shifted, rolled, cupped her face in his hands.

"Ada…" He sounded so kind, so loving, "Ada…I didn't mean to make you cry." His face was tortured. He hated hurting her.

Yes...a good man.

She shook her head, swiped away that one tiny tear. "You asked me once to tell you the truth, I'm going to ask you now to do the same."

"Alright."

"Tell me you don't children…tell me you don't want a home, family," She met his eyes and they were wide in the moonlight, "Tell me that…and I will stay here with you, in this apartment…forever. Until we burn each other up and out. Until we can't stand each other anymore. Until we are old and gray and tired."

"Ada…I'm in love with you." Oh, there it was. There it was like a prayer. Or a band-aid on a bullet wound.

And it hurt her heart to hear him say it. "I know that. I know it. And I hate myself for letting it happen. I do. But you have to say it, Chris. You have to say it out loud, now. For both of us. Because I think we both need to know the truth. I think we've been doing this thing, with us, on a bubble. And it needs to burst. It has to burst. Because I can't give you any of that. I won't. It's not who I am. And I don't think you can live with that. Not forever."

"There's no forever, Ada. There's only now. This moment. Right here. Haven't you been listening? There's no home for me, no family. There's only now."

"You deserve a woman that can give you everything."

He pulled her to him, pressed his mouth to hers. "Ada, haven't you figured it out yet? You've given me everything. And it doesn't have to have a picket fence on it. It doesn't need kids and car pools and Sunday dinners. Because it has you in it. And that's more than some people find in a life time."

She looked at him sadly, so sadly. "You should have all those things."

"I should have a twelve inch dick and be ten years younger too. Sometimes we play the hand we're dealt. I can't miss what I don't have. But I can miss what I've got. Don't try to leave me again, Ada. Because I will just come after you. And I will bring you back here, again and again, until you are too tired to run anymore."

"I never get tired of running."

"Then maybe I'll run with you. And we'll see where the road ends together."

They spilled back together on the smooth sheets. Her arms and legs slid around him. His mouth pressed to her chest, between her breasts, and his ear took its place.

They lay together in the quiet now, holding on.

And there was no more pain between them.

She waited until he was sleeping peacefully. She rolled to her feet in the dark, effortless, easily - like a cat. She padded to the bathroom and flipped on the light.

It was harsh on her smooth featured face. The dark circles beneath her eyes alarmed her. She was so careful to keep her faceless wrinkle free and unlined. She couldn't stop time from marching across her face, not completely, no matter how hard she tried.

She had utter control on her life a few months ago. From her whims to her wiles to her willingness to succumb and succeed, she'd had complete control.

She'd lost it somehow, somewhere, to a man with as much class as a foam finger at football game. It was insanity.

It was unheard of. It was an anomaly, entirely. It made no sense and by existing irrevocably eradicated the very nature of her world.

An anomaly...

Her hand shifted and settled on her abdomen. An anomaly. Something that shouldn't exist.

Ada stared at the tiny pink line. It didn't fit in the perfect emptiness where it had appeared.

It was, as well, an anomaly. A line where there should be none.

She stared at her face in the mirror...and kept her hand on her belly.

* * *

It was the sound, in the middle of the night, that woke them. It was a creepy sound, a continuous sound. It was the sound of something and someone inside his apartment.

He rolled, in loose sweat pants, and pulled the Glock that was strapped to the back of his head board. He noticed the bed was empty and Ada was gone. Where? Somewhere. Honestly he couldn't think of a better person to have here with him in a moment like this.

The door to the bedroom was kicked in, fast and hard. The mattress of his bed exploded in goose down and feathers as automatic gun fire obliterated it. The gun men figured out it was empty a second too late. He turned, lifted the weapon to fire again, and his face exploded in a spray of blood and bone.

From the living room, a voice came, "Mr. Redfield…I see you haven't lost your touch. Put the gun down and come out here please."

"Sure," Chris called back, his voice thick with sarcasm, "I'll put my hands up and come on out. Maybe you can cut me in half when I get to the doorway."

"I apologize for that. Clearly that was not well done. But I wanted to make sure you were still up to the task."

"What task?"

"I have a maze…it needs a rat. You'll do nicely."

"Who the fuck are you?"

"Come out and I will show you."

"I'll pass thanks. Why don't you come on in here and we'll talk about it?"

"I think not. But the longer you stay in there, the more the people I will shoot in the head. You have ten seconds to come out."

Chris hesitated and listened. And heard the scared sounds of struggle. Ada? He wanted to call out but didn't dare. But the voice was familiar. It was the night security guard from the lobby, Amanda. Where was Stu? Likely already dead.

"I'm coming out. I'm coming."

He came into the doorway to find Amanda kneeling on the ground with guns pointed at her. Her hands were behind her head but she looked otherwise unharmed.

"Amanda…are you alright?"

"Yes. I'm alright. I'm sorry Mr. Redfield. They shot Stu. And then.."

"It's ok. I'm here now."

"Eight seconds, impressive." The voice was female? It was so hard to place. The mask obscured any hope of guessing gender. "Unarmed, you're still not beaten. Get down on your face please. Let's not make this difficult."

"You know, you could have just said please. You didn't have to hurt anyone else."

"Always the hero. People are canon fodder. They are useless. And pathetic. Their death means nothing." To prove the point, the masked intruder put their gun to the back of Amanda's head.

"Damnit! I surrendered!"

Amanda gave him big, scared, pleading eyes. "Oh please don't! Please!"

"Yes you did. But it's now been eleven seconds." And the front of Amanda's forehead exploded, spraying the mahogany floor with blood like a burst water balloon.

He heard the second gun, felt the bullet as it went into his chest. And still couldn't believe it. His hand clutched at it, he stared at the red that welled there bright and thick. He went to his knees on the floor.

"Don't worry. It won't kill you. It was just because I hate waiting. Take him, bind him, put him in D-Block." The voice changed as the mask was lifted and the face floated above him.

With little more than a moment to be surprise, he tried to place it, and memory struck just before he went down like a felled tree.

And someone, quite simply, turned off the lights.

* * *

Sherry was warm against him as they slept. The sheets were like butter on her skin. She admitted that his penchant for the finer things was going to please her. She liked the rich fabrics, the soft and glorious feel of hand spun cotton and silk.

She rolled toward him as she roused, just a little, and touched Leon's sleeping face.

God her heart was going to burst. She felt the love of him like an arrow in her gut. It pierced from chest to groin to foot. His eyes fluttered open and met hers.

"Hi."

"Hi," She answered, in the spill of moonlight, "I can't believe you're here. I can't believe I am."

He lifted a hand, touched her hair. "Took me long enough."

"Better late than never." She moved into him and he rolled her beneath him. The kiss was smooth now, soft, deep. She lifted her arms to slide them around his back.

The sky light exploded, showering them in glass like tiny, horrible daggers. He kept her beneath him to protect her. He jerked, jerked again.

Sherry screamed as he collapsed atop her. Panic turned to fear and horror. Was he dead? Had they killed him?

A masked face loomed over his unconscious body.

"Ms. Birkin…what a surprise. And a delight. I had no idea I'd find you here as well. Sorry for that. But he's a bit of a difficult beast to catch. I had to be swift with acquiring him." The masked figure pointed the gun in their hand at her. "It seems it's two for one night."

She couldn't even get her mouth open to scream before he shot her. She felt it in the side of her neck. Bullet? No. No.

Tranq.

Her vision wavered. She clung to the man atop her when they tried to take him away.

"Don't worry," Promised the voice, "You'll see each other again…very, very soon."

And the darkness dragged her under.

* * *

The dark house was a comfort.

Claire eased out of bed when she found it empty.

A small light beside the bed illuminated the note.

 _Claire -_

 _I was feeling brave. I ran out to get milk...alone. All by myself._

 _Yikes._

 _-P_

Her heart. It was capable of getting bigger after all. A HUGE STEP for him. Alone. He'd driven out in public alone. Of course, it was the middle of the night. He was likely to see next to no one out there at this time...but it was a STEP.

And a big one for a man so broken months before.

Claire shifted and flicked off the light. Her stomach was queasy again. It happened all the time now. Honestly, she should just get used to it.

She rose from the bed naked and moved into the hallway to go to the bathroom and wash her face.

She was three steps there when the flashlight bobbled in her eyes.

"...well...this IS a night of surprises...Ms. Redfield...I'm afraid your picture didn't do you...justice..."

The light bobbled over her naked body lewdly. The voice was British and snooty. She felt nothing hearing it. Fear wasn't something she entertained anymore. Clearly, this asshole didn't realize who he was dealing with.

"Take a picture, you nasty perv, it'll last longer."

Laughter and the sound of a gun cocking.

"Your snarky humor is legendary as well it seems...all though clearly the stories never mentioend the legendary nature of your tits as well. Beautiful." And the pervy hand cupped one, shaping it.

Claire gave the masked face dead eyes.

The cupping hand crushed, drawing a sound of pain from her as she recoiled.

"There you are...underneath all that bravado. There you are indeed. We'll see how you fight, Ms. Redfield, when everything you love dies before you. We'll see indeed."

Claire slapped his hand and he answered the move with a backhand to her face that threw blood from her mouth in beads. But that was ok. Better hitting than groping. She could take the hitting.

She gave him a dirty look from her hooded eyes. The flashlight made everything seem surreal in the dark.

"You can't scare me, you know, if you heard stories about me? I don't scare."

"I've heard. I've heard them all...you know what else I've heard?" He leaned close to her. The flashlight illuminated the red lenses on his ventilator mask. "You'll do anything for the people you love. Will you...Claire? Will you..." His hand lowered and touched her mound. Her teeth barred like a tiger. But she held still. "...DO anything for them?"

She shifted closed to him. Her mouth brushed his mask as she spoke. "Keep touching me, you stupid fuck. Keep playing the rapist. You wanna see how tough I am? Put the gun down and take your chances."

They stood in the dark while he stroked her body lazily. She didn't stop him. She didn't do anything but wait. She kept her hands protectively over her belly while he touched her.

And her mouth turned up in a sneer. "You can do anything you want to me, you little bastard, it won't make a difference. Eventually? This story ends with you dead. That's what happens to the bad guys...they die."

"Do they?" He jammed the gun in her breast, hard, and stole her breath, "Or maybe this story ends like Raccoon City...with all the good guys dead or running for their lives."

She couldn't do anything but watch as the gun whipped her across the face.

* * *

 _Post Note:_

 _Thank you to everyone reading this. I'm getting a kick out of it. **Xaori** \- HAHA. I laugh so hard at your reviews. In an unfair world - Chris Redfield always wears pants. HAHAHAHA. *dies*_


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:** **_Xaori -_** _I can't stop laughing. Only Redfield gets pants. HAHA. The way it should be. And somehow wrong._

 _Let's have everyone fight naked, shall we? Bahahha._

 _Unknown reviewers - thank you for reading and reviewing - I know the couplings are a bit weird in this tale. But I am known to most as the lover of the odd and crack pairs so there ya go. What can I say? I like exploring angles that we don't see in the game._

 _Thank you so much for reading this story._

* * *

 **Chapter 12: Eradication**

* * *

 _"Swept aside, swept away, swept along…sweeping, steeping, stopping…she couldn't hold on."_

* * *

 **Russia, April**

The pounding in his head was like hoof beats from a thousand horses let loose from hell. He felt like someone had taken a ball peen hammer and was striking his brains repeatedly. If he shifted, would his skull split apart?

It was cold and damp and the floor beneath his cheek was freezing. His fingers brushed the concrete as he opened his eyes. His blurry vision cleared and he found himself staring out into a disheveled laboratory. Tanks filled with…creatures half formed and clearly born of nightmares floated in gelatinous green goo. Some were cracked and broken, spilling the dead out in an obscene puppet show.

Desks were over turned, tossed, papers littering the floor like confetti. Someone had barricaded the door with two pushed over file cabinets and their contents spilled around them. He shifted, pushed himself up in a push up motion and discovered that his head would not split apart after all.

He was dressed in black. Black tank top, black sweats. Someone had taken the time to dress him. A quick search of his body found him unharmed, save for the bandage on his chest that had been where they'd shot him. It was already forming into a nice pink scar. So this told him it had been some time since they'd taken him. How long was irrelevant. But he speculated it was a week at least if not more.

And then the room began to talk to him.

"Mr. Redfield – good to see you've awoken."

He looked for speakers or something that was offering the voice but in the age of tiny and hands free, he was wasting his time trying to find the source.

He hated asking the obvious but what choice did he have?

"Where am I?"

"The Maze." The voice sighed, "I've let the other rats loose too. The one who hits the feeder bar and doesn't die from the shock may even get out alive."

The face floated into his mind, familiar, so familiar. Where had he seen that face before? Where had he seen that face?

"The scientists all died so quickly. The data is really useless. They scattered, screamed, died. I need someone to FIGHT. So, I thought, who better then Chris Redfield? Who better than the man who survived Spencer – twice. Who survived the outbreak in China. Who seems to ALWAYS survive. Don't be afraid, Chris. You never die…the rest of the rats though? Who's to say."

He turned and found a gun laying on the floor where he'd been. He hesitated but finally picked it up.

"There you are. Now you're ready." A buzzer sounded somewhere in the distance. "The game begins. Access your memories and you'll be ready to play. I'll wait for you in the tower. Good luck!"

The silence was deafening and very brief. The tube beside him began to hum.

He turned, slow, horror movie slow, as it cracked, spider webbing across the glass in a series of endless lines. The thing inside snarled, twisting against the goo that held it. A hunter, a horrible, ugly, nearly reptilian beast with beady eyes on squat, heavily muscled body. And claws as long as a man's forearm.

He turned and ran. The file cabinets were blocking his only escape. He grabbed one and shoved, throwing all his weight behind it. It was intensely, impossibly heavy but he didn't lift weights for nothing. It moved, scraping with a metallic scream over the concrete. The door was still blocked by the second, tilted onto it's side like a death omen.

He grabbed it and shoved, shoved, and the tube behind him exploded in a shower of tinkling glass and goo. He heard it leap free, heard it land, and heard it stalk quick and hungry toward him. He didn't drop the cabinet he was pushing, he just changed angles.

At the last moment, he shoved the cabinet onto the hunter. It roared, catching the thing like a man might, pushing against the massive weight.

Chris didn't hang around to watch it wrestle that weight, he jerked open the door and ran through it. Barefoot, he was surprisingly fast. The hallway was long and narrow. There were two locked doors he came across while running and one wide open at the end of the hallway. Sure, he was being led. He knew it. But he ran anyway.

He burst into the room beyond the hallway and slid, jerking around to slam the door shut in his wake. The hunter smashed into the door as it slammed, snarling, roaring. He heard the squeal of claws on metal and it grated into his pounding head.

The door had no lock, no way to stop it from opening it. It smashed into the metal, screaming. Chris threw his body weight against it, desperately searching the room for some way to fight the thing. The little 9mm in his hand would just serve to piss it off. Like tossing rocks at it. Or spraying it with a hose.

The room was a garden of sorts. It had a fountain in the center and herbs sprouting around it. It was ransacked as well, pots overturned and broken, the water in the fountain pink from blood. There was a ladder on the far side, offering a climb to the balcony above. As far as he could tell, the balcony was the only way out of the room.

But he'd never outrun the hunter beating on the door. No way. On his best day, he was only a passable runner. And that thing was bred for speed. It was stand and fight or die trying. The most he could hope for was a quick and merciful death.

He turned and jerked open the door. The Hunter lunged and he slammed the door in its face, once, twice. He used the door like a weapon, bashing it, smashing the metal into the charging thing with a nearly desperate speed.

When it got one muscled arm around the door and swiped those claws at him, he smashed the door on that arm and could only hope he broke it. The hunter screamed, screamed, the high pitched wail beating against his brain like angry fists.

It smashed into the door, once, twice, three times and he finally threw it open, wide. The hunter burst forward, it's gnashing teeth wrapped around the barrel of the 9mm and he pulled the trigger and kept on pulling it. The weight of the hunter atop him drove him to the floor with it riding him down. He kept inside its attack radius, using the meat of its own body to protect him from those swiping claws. Only one arm was working, the other dangling uselessly.

So at least he'd broken the arm after all.

One claw sliced a clean line over his left bicep but the pain was easy to disconnect. And after the fourth bullet went into his brain, the thing became dead weight atop him. The warmth of blood spilled over his chest and collarbone.

The sound of rushing water from the fountain was punctuated by his fast, scared breathing.

He lay there, for just a moment, and fought to remember he'd seen worse. He'd done worse. He'd survived worse. And he'd be damned if this was how he was going to die. As some rat in some psycho's cage.

He shoved the dead hunter off of him and climbed to his feet, splattered in blood. His arm wasn't badly cut, it was superficial at best. Most of the blood on him was from the beast he'd just slaughtered.

He moved toward the ladder and ejected the clip on the 9mm, checking how many rounds he had left. Nine rounds left. If he faced another hunter or two, he'd be deader than disco.

So he tucked the 9mm into the waist of the sweats and climbed the ladder. Because standing there wasn't going to do any good. And the only way out was to play the game. Win or lose, he had to play.

* * *

Claire felt the pain of her aching head. It rang like a bell inside the throbbing center of her forehead.

She twitched her face to see if it was broken.

Could a face be broken?

It would seem the answer would have to wait for another day because she was ok. Her face hurt, good lord it hurt, but she was otherwise unharmed.

Her arms tugged and found themselves unbound. Her legs shifted and were free.

She was lying on her back in the grass with a fountain burbling beside her. She was dressed - in the ugliest shade of purple ever - which totally clashed with her hair - and slowly got to her knees in the fog that slid thick and goopy around her.

Pea soup, Claire mused, which wasn't a good thing when one awoke alone in a potentially dangerous situation.

She glanced at the fountain, curious. It was just water, stone, and a delicate looking cat with its mouth open spilling water into the foamy pool that waited below it.

She wasn't sure why, but something about the whole thing made the hair on the back of her neck stand up.

Something shivered in the fog.

Claire shifted, eyeing the darkness. She scanned the fog, looking for anything to use as a weapon.

There was a heavy tree close to her. It had shed some rather large branches from its dying base. The leafless canopy of its naked branches jutted into the dewy sky forlornly, as if it were pointing toward the heavens to beg for relief from a slow demise. Claire gripped one of the branches and lifted it, checking for strength.

Good, it was heavy without being too heavy and made to be swung like a bat.

She braced herself, listening.

The sounds of approach grew closer, her shoulders tensed.

The fog split and the dog came from the misty air with a snarling burst. She swung, the rotting beast met the makeshift bat with a crunch and a yelp, and blood fell as it was tossed to the side to roll away into the fog that it had left behind.

Claire's pulse sped up, her breathing turned fast and ready. She listened again.

It padded toward her now, pacing and snapping its rotting jaws.

She eyed it daringly.

"Come on, you ugly bitch, you a coward? Come get some."

The necrotic mutt threw back its head and bayed its hunger to the swirling dark.

Claire braced, and it came for her one more time.

* * *

 **New York, April**

"You're not trying hard enough! I should kick your ass for just SITTING HERE!"

The things on the desk went flying. They were scattered by an angry swipe. They were tossed to the floor with rage that knew no bounds.

Sitting behind the desk, angry blue eyes met rage-filled hazel.

"You better back down, kid, right now. It's my daughter who's missing too. MINE. Don't get in my god damn face and threaten me."

"...find her, Barry. I mean it...how can they all go missing and NO ONE HAS A CLUE HOW TO FIND THEM!?"

Piers and Barry held eyes. It sparked and flashed with stifled fear.

Barry finally answered, softly, "Because somebody on the inside paved the way, you know that. You already know that. It's just too fucking horrible to admit it."

"Somebody turned Benedict Arnold." Piers breathed, so softly.

"Oh, yeah. Somebody close to the top. Somebody sold them out, all of them. The question is: who?" Barry rose, pacing a little. His huge body was carefully contained in a suit that was missing the tie with the jacket left open over a wrinkled white shirt, "We can't do shit until we know where they are, Piers. But we can do this. We can find the traitor. We can find the mole."

They locked gazes again.

Piers finally nodded, slowly, carefully, "Who has access to that kind of information, Barry? Some of it is classified so far up the wire that I can't see it. Shit, I wonder if CHRIS can see some of it."

Barry glanced at his laptop. He hesitated.

And then he said, "I can access all of it. And so can whoever's been ghosting my machine."

They locked eyes again. Piers jerked a little. "Somebody has eyes on you?"

"Oh, yeah. IT found it just this morning. A backdoor virus of some kind. Likely got in through an attachment on a classified file. Whoever it was sent me an email with legitimate information, I clicked the file, and POOF opened the gate for them to ride right on in and get confidential information. Boom. Instant access."

Piers clicked a few keys on the laptop. "Anybody speculating on the WHO?"

Barry sighed, shifting, "I've had ten emails just in the last ten minutes. The list is about twenty people long right now. The bad news is that once the person opened the door, who knows who they were sending the intel to. Without knowing the mole, we can't even begin to track the leak back to the source."

Piers smiled, slowly, slyly, "You know what? I think we can." He shifted and started typing.

Barry eyed him, brow lifted, "How so?"

"I'm going to leak "intel" on here. Set up a false trail. If the person clicks it and forwards it, we'll have our direct link to them. It's a backwash program. The second the leak takes a "sip", it'll spill right back into their mouth."

Impressed, Barry watched him key in a weird combination of buttons. Computer mumbo jumbo always confused him. He'd read somewhere that the kid was a whiz on the programming. It was speculated if he hadn't gone into the fight, he'd have been some kind of nerd at the keyboard.

"How long will it take to set up the program?"

"Not long. I figure in an hour, we'll know who sold everyone we care about to the bad guys."

Barry cracked his knuckles. "Kid...keep making promises like that and you can knock all the shit off my desk anytime you want."

With a small chuckle, Piers started making a trap for a very unfortunate spy.

* * *

 **Russia, April**

The cold seeped inside, stifling her breath, stiffening her muscles. She shifted and found herself bound, tightly, to the floor on which she lay. Her hands pulled, finding the bindings tight and expertly done. It didn't scare her, not much could, not anymore. She was almost immune to situational fear.

She rolled to a sitting position, her bound hands trapped to the chain that held her to the floor. She was in a wide open room with a dirty wide mirror high above as if it were a gallery and she were being observed on the other side of that glass. There was a rusty horse trough a few feet from her and a set of double doors on the far side of the room.

She wasn't alone in this dungeon. A tube was there with her. And in the tube floated the sexless, horribly familiar presence of a tyrant. The tyrant still slept, kept in stasis until whoever had orchestrated this horrible freak show released it, most likely to end her life.

Ada pulled against the chain that bound her and looked down at her clothes. Red sweats and a red tank top. And the number #11 tattooed on the inside of her arm. She sighed and shifted again, feeling the aches in her body. They'd tranqued her, clearly. And there was dried blood on her face that was itching. So they'd knocked her around some in transport.

Where was Chris? Was he alive?

These questions would have to go unanswered. Because he wasn't the priority. She was. And Ada Wong was very good at priorities. She assimilated the room in a handful of minutes. And the jingle of another set of chains drew her attention.

There was movement, just behind the test tube.

"Hello?"

Female. The voice was female and lilting with the first edge of fear. "Who's there?"

Ada sighed. Fantastic. A tag along. Nothing like being forced to friend up to a piece of human waste. This person, this other girl, she was dead. Maybe not now, but eventually. Games like this never end well for extra people. She was the fifth man on the Star Trek Away Team. She wouldn't survive the episode.

"Are you chained up too?" Ada answered, ignoring the query of who she was.

"No." The girl eased around the tube. Her hands were bound together but she wasn't bound to the floor. She was pretty and very young, blonde. She was wearing pink sweats similar to Ada's red. She was also familiar. Ada prided herself on never forgetting a face. But this one was hanging around the edges of her recollection like a phantom.

What was it? Her brain was generally sharper than this. It was almost embarrassing.

"Let's try to get me unhooked here," Ada slapped on a friendly smile. She was going to try to play friends with the girl. Maybe it would put her at ease and help them both. "I don't like the look of that thing in the tank there."

"Me either." The girl moved to the center of the room to check where the chain was bound. "No one to break the chain here."

She rose, scanned the room and moved toward the far wall. There was a rusty fire ax just lying there on the floor. She picked it up, studying it. "This won't work. It'll break the second it hits that chain."

Ada sighed and shifted. And the intercom spilled a voice down upon them.

"Good morning ladies! Welcome to the Maze! It's lovely to see you both! So different, so beautiful, and perhaps with more in common than you think! You've met before or maybe you didn't? You've been inches away from each other more than once! Maybe we'll see if you can figure it all out AND escape! I'm getting bored up here so I have to move this little reunion along. I'll be waiting in the tower if you can find me! Toodles!"

Ada watched the light turn from red to green on the isolation tank. The liquid began to drain out the bottom.

"Oh my god," The girl breathed in terror.

And the eyes of the tyrant opened. The tube opened, slowly, and the cables connecting the tyrant to stasis snapped off with wet, audible pops. It stepped, slow and terrifying, from the platform. The tyrant was a horrible creation. It was naked muscle and bone and sexless, shapeless fear. It had one hand fashioned into a claw with nails as long as the forearm of a man. It had red beady eyes in a featureless face that might once have resembled a man.

It moved forward, slowly, watching Ada with an almost human intelligence.

Well, she thought, at least it would be quick.

The girl whistled, drawing its attention.

"Hey, big ugly! Yeah you, you ugly fucker. Why don't you come get me?" She lifted the rusty ax as if it would do any good against the thing bred and built for murder.

It changed course and moved toward her. The girl backed up and prepared to make her stand. Ada figured she was stupid, brave, but stupid. It lifted its clawed hand high, higher and brought it down in a swinging arch.

A handful of seconds passed before the girl rolled, ducking left and rolling. Those claws swiped close enough to whack off an inch of her blonde hair but missed taking her head with it. And they smashed into the floor beneath…and severed Ada's chain.

Surprise slapped at her as Ada pulled herself free on her bindings. The cuffs were still on her wrists like ugly bracelets but at least she was free to move. And so she did. She dashed for the doors as the thing advanced again on the blonde.

She was grateful for the help, she was. But she wasn't going to die for this girl.

The doors were locked tight.

"Son of …" She turned and whistled. "Hey!"

The tyrant turned and charged her. One, two…she rolled, as the other girl had done, at the last second. And the tyrant took the doors out in his charge. He went straight through them with a roaring crash and freed the way.

The girl was right behind her as they rushed out of the room behind it. There was a split second to decide where to go.

The hallway was split left or right. They went left, running at full tilt. The tyrant was running fast, faster, fastest behind them.

They slammed into another room and Ada threw the door shut and locked it. As if it would do any good at all. With still no time to plan, they moved. It was a laundry room, essentially with no way out. But Ada wasn't waiting to die here amongst old linens and the smell of mold and mildew.

She ran to the trash chute and shoved the half-full cart of garbage out of the way.

"Go!"

The girl did. She went. She leaped into the chute and shoved herself down without asking why. Good girl. Ada thought maybe she wouldn't die after all.

She climbed into the chute and the door burst open. The tyrant rushed through, screaming in rage. It swiped and she felt those claws slash the air above her as she tumbled, sliding like an excitable child down the chute at an impossible speed.

She rolled as she came out the other side. The smell of old garbage welled up around her. And med squished over her arm and shoulder as she came out of the roll.

They didn't pause for longer than a moment. The girl and Ada started running for it. She didn't think the tyrant could fit down the chute but she wasn't taking any chances. The fog swelled around them thick and dense.

They raced blindly through it and Ada heard the impossible. She heard the tyrant burst out of that chute. It must have found a way to compress its body to fit. Which made it smarter than any tyrant she'd ever seen.

They barreled through the fog, feet barely touching the ground. Ada followed the sounds of water, thinking if they could just reach it, maybe they could find a place to hide…or a weapon…or something.

Or maybe they'd just run right into the arms of their waiting death.

But at least by running...they stood a chance.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13:** **Utilization**

* * *

 _"Gathered, grown, slipped from the shell of seamlessness, she burst from her cocoon. And the sea of doubt rushed her farther toward destruction."_

* * *

 **New York, April**

Sitting in the chair alone in the cold room, Carlos Oliveira couldn't remember a time when he'd been more nervous.

Maybe the first time he'd touched a girl.

Maybe the first time he'd fucked one.

Maybe the first time he'd realized _he_ was fucked. When he'd come down the stairs to find Jill Valentine dying. When he'd raced against time to save her.

When she'd left him in the dust to return to Chris Redfield.

And now...maybe now...when he was pretty sure Chris Redfield's butt boy was about to expose him for a traitor.

The bad news? He _was_ a traitor.

The good news? He was pretty sure he'd be dead before either side could torture him...too much.

Why had he turned?

The answer was simple, ageless, and predictable: Hell Hath No Fury like a Former Mercenary Scorned.

He'd been burned once by Valentine. And twice by Redfield passing him over for the BSAA. The smug faced Chris Redfield and his stupid company. He'd stood there and said, "Sorry Carlos. You're not qualified."

Not qualified!? He'd survived Raccoon City. He'd turned on Umbrella for them. What did it take to "qualify"!?

When the tech job adjacent to the BSAA had come up, he'd snatched it up...and spent three years laying groundwork to bury the BSAA and the former STARS with it.

The ravaged face of Piers Nivans appeared in the door as it opened.

Carlos shifted in his chair, "You should have bound me if you planned to torture me."

"Who said I planned to torture you?"

They held eyes.

Carlos answered, quietly, "Then what do you want?"

"Answers. What you give me determines whether you walk out of here, or you get carted out in pieces. Doesn't matter to me which way you choose. You're gonna tell me where Claire is."

Carlos shifted again, "I'm sorry about Claire. I am. She's just fall out. It's not her they want. Not really. It's Redfield."

Piers tapped one boot, watching him, "Who's "they"?"

"... The _Podzemlje."_

Piers waiting, brow lifted.

"It's Croatian. They're a splinter cell really...left over from the revolt in the Eastern Slav Republic. When the ESR collapsed, the remaining few behind the revolt splintered out. They got backing from what's left of Umbrella. The Connections - they call themselves - the company that bought out the pieces of the dead Umbrella and the sold off chunks of Tricell's and WilPharma's legacy. The Connections and the _Podzemlje_ which is really just the Croatian word for Underground."

Carlos shifted again, sighing a little.

"They offered me asylum. They offered me freedom. They started out with wooing me like a fat kid with candy...wouldn't I like to get revenge on those who'd betrayed me? If I worked for them, I could finally put the last of Umbrella's UBCS fuckers in the ground. I could be instated as the head of the antibioterrorism world...with Redfield out of the way...they'd take control of the BSAA. They'd make me the boss. Recognition in a world that had spent years ignoring me."

Piers' was looking at him like he was a cockroach. Or a slug. Or a bug.

It was ok. People had always looked at him like that. Carlos was used to it.

Piers said, "You betrayed good people for personal glory?"

"What's more American than that right? Can you blame me? Really? I saved Jill Valentine. I fought Umbrella. I kicked asses and helped. And Redfield got all the fucking glory...well...him and that stupid Leon Kennedy. What an asshat, that guy, I have great hair and killer lady skills too. But does that matter? Nope. Fucking Kennedy and Redfield. Poster boys for heroes. What can I say? I'm a man. I have pride. And the Underground bought right into it. They dangled the bait and I took it." Carlos sighed again, "I am fucking sorry as hell about Claire though. They'll rape and torture her just to hurt him."

Piers went very still.

"She's a good girl. Deserves better. I hope they kill her quick at least so she doesn't suffer too much."

Carlos met his eyes. "I can give you an access code that allows me to upload things to their server. But that's all I have. I don't have any way of making contact. I just dump data. It's all I know."

Piers shifted toward him, "You sold Claire to these people just to soothe your wounded pride?"

Carlos shrugged, "I didn't know they'd take her. But it doesn't matter. What's done is done? She's Redfield's sister. She was doomed from the start anyway. She's always been a bit of a weirdo anyway. Maybe she'll like the rape. She likes it rou-"

The fist smashed him in the mouth. The chair tottered and went down on its back. And Carlos skidded across the floor on his back holding his shattered nose.

He spit blood and gasped, trying to relearn how to breathe.

Above him, Piers loomed menacingly, "You better fucking hope she's untouched when I find her. You better PRAY she's perfect and safe. Because if they've touched a hair on her head, I'm going to make you wish you'd died in Raccoon City."

From the floor, covered in his own coward's blood, looking at the vengeance on that ruined face, Carlos believed him.

* * *

Russia, April

The fog covered everything. It was a blanket of smoke and sin. It obscured the eyes, obstructed the mind. Seeing through it was like trying to see beneath a boiling black sea. His hands were sweaty on the pistol they held and his nerves were all but destroyed.

He could hear movement in the fog, hear the moans, and taste the fear on the back of his tongue as he crept. Zombies didn't scare him. They hadn't scared him a long time. But this…this inability to see, to plan, to execute with the upper hand…this scared him. Because it leveled the playing field with the undead. It gave them the upper hand. They could smell him.

Without his eyes, he was more than blind…he was crippled.

He could hear the distant rush of water and the toll of a buoy somewhere out at sea. The water was so close he could smell the salt and taste the sea. He craved it but it also scared him. Because he was fairly certain they were on an island somewhere. Of course they were. There was never a lab that WASN'T on an island.

The fog started to part and he entertained the idea, for just a moment, that the weather was clearing. But then the rain started and a peel of thunder split the sky far away. His bare toes kicked something hard and he stifled, barely, the yelp of pain.

His eyes tracked to what he'd kicked. She'd been pretty when she'd been alive. And young. And she'd worked the phones in cubicle six on the third floor of the BSAA. Her name had been Marnie, Marnie Lewis, and she'd been a first level accountant.

And now she was dead.

His throat clenched, hard. And guilt reared up to sink he nasty fangs into his chest and hold on.

Marnie. He would avenge her.

He froze as the sound of running came close, closer. The fog split a moment before she ran into him. He grunted, caught her and shoved her behind him, as the fog showed the wolf that was right on her heels.

It was hairy and bloody and dead. It's rotted jaws were split wide open and the smell that spilled from it was that of rotting meat and fart. Why was it that old blood always smelled like fart? It leapt, growling. Chris braced and ducked just as it arced toward him, he pushed up in a smooth motion, catching it around the belly. The momentum carried it up and out, tossed like a toy from a careless hand. The wolf yelped, and flipped off into the fog.

He didn't wait for it to return, he grabbed her hand and ran.

Blind, they raced, Chris doing his best to lead her away from the sound of moaning, the scuttle of feet, the shuffle of the dead. He grabbed her as they came to the side of a rock wall and tossed her, without straining so much as a hair on his head, he picked her up and tossed her to the rocky out cropping on the cliff wall. She caught, grabbed, and climbed.

He was right behind her, grabbing a jutting portion of rock and pulling himself up to ascend the damp, slimy stone. He could hear the dead shuffling toward them, moaning, hungering.

And just like that they were trapped on a ledge about ten feet above the dead. The horde gathered beneath, raising their arms and singing their haunting, horrible song.

She huddled back against the wall, shaking.

Her name was Anna. She was about nineteen and had been an intern in the P.R. department. Her fashionably cut hair was limp, dirty, and matted with dried blood. The partially shaved, partially steeped style had been very chic. Now it just looked as defeated as the rest of her.

She was wearing a tank and sweats in emerald green.

"Anna…are you alright?"

She turned her gaze to him, did a double take. "Mr. Redfield? Is that you?"

"It's me. Are you bit Anna? Or hurt?"

She was covered in blood but didn't appear to be wounded. "No. This is…this was Jenna. And Sue. And Greg. They were..we were…I had to leave them .I had to! There were so many. Jenna went down first and they…her arms. They ripped her arms off. Oh god! They ripped her arms off!"

He scooted toward her, trying to quiet her. The screaming would bring any number of things to find them.

"Shhhh. Shhhhh. Anna, shhhh. It's ok now. It's ok."

"Mr. Redfield why are we here? What's happening? I don't understand any of this. This voice told me…it called me number eight. What does that mean?" She showed him her arm, and tattooed on the inside of her left arm was the number 8.

He glanced down to find his own emblazoned with the number 13.

"It's probably the number of us that are loose here, Anna. It's a game. A horrid, terrible, awful game. They gathered us all up from the office and brought us here."

"Why!?"

" I wish I knew the answer to that."

There was a sharp whistle from up the side of the cliff. He turned his eyes to find Leon Kennedy peering at him from the top of the cliff.

"I should have known I'd find you alive and here, Chris."

"I have never, ever been happier to see your pretty face, Kennedy."

Leon leaned down over the side and extended his hand. Chris boosted Anna up first and then grabbed that outstretched hand and used it to pull himself up as well. At the top of the cliff, he studied Leon. He was wearing the tank and sweats in blue.

"Got you too, huh?"

Leon shrugged, studying the terrain where they stood. "Woke up here. Can't remember a damn thing in between."

There was the outline of a building in the distance. Chris wasn't sure but it looked like a lighthouse.

"Anna," She met his eyes, wringing her hands, "Anna you had a gun at one point. Do you still have it?"

Anna shook her head. "I lost it. Lost it when they started to swarm us. I'm sorry."

It sucked but he'd expected she was unarmed. Hope would always spring eternal though it seemed. He moved with Leon toward the building, with Anna between them now.

"Any idea of where we are?"

Leon sighed a little. "Found some literature in one of the lab areas. It was Russian. So we're in Soviet territory somewhere. Moonrise is obscured by the fog and the clouds but the one glimpse put it in the western portion of the sky. My guess is a few hours outside Murmansk somewhere near the Barents Sea."

There was one thing you could say for Leon Kennedy. Whatever black ops training he'd received had created one hell of a guy to have with you in bad situations. He was somewhere between MaGuyver, Tonto, Watson, and possibly Chuck Norris. Basically, he was good at just about everything.

"What are you thinking? Escape?"

Leon shook his head. "Escape is impossible. Touch the back of your neck."

Chris lifted a hand, felt carefully and found the lump that was there. "Implant."

"Yep. My guess is self detonating. Get too far outside the designated area…boom."

Anna started to cry. She bent double at the waist and started to sob, thick, loud, and awful. Chris put a comforting hand on her back, Leon kept walking, scanning the area. Apparently comfort was left to Chris.

"Anna, I know you're scared. I know this is as bad as it can get. But we have to keep moving. We're out in the open here. Anything can find us or see us. We need to move."

"I don't want to move. I just want to let them get me. I saw my friends…I've got a bomb in my neck?! What the hell is happening here!?"

Chris lifted her to standing. He took her arms and shook her, just a little. "Anna there isn't time to fall apart. We might die here. Yes. There's always that chance. But if you stand here, if you do nothing, then you WILL die. And that way the bad guys win. I don't let the bad guys win. It's not my style. So you can walk, which is the smarter and safer option. Or I can carry you, which means we're down one good shooting arm and I can't run as fast carrying you. The choice is yours."

Anna started walking. He watched her make a valiant attempt to pull it together. For normal people, this would be a nightmare. And he felt sorry that she couldn't take a moment to grieve. But if she broke, she'd never get back up. And he couldn't let her die out here.

The light house was old, red and white, classic. He expected Edgar Allan Poe to be waiting inside. But the wood rotted door opened into a dusty, musty, damp room with nothing more than a desk and an old chair. Leon and Chris scouted the immediate area and it was empty.

"All clear."

Chris nodded and moved to look up the long, long, spiral stair case. "What are the odds this light house still has functioning parts?"

"About as good as a finding a working submarine or helicopter to get us out of here."

Chris snorted out a little laugh. These kinda places always had something like that lying around. He was betting they'd find something soon enough. Not that they could flee. They had to finish. Which meant finding the Mad Scientist who was poking them with sticks to get them to play the game.

"Wait here with Anna."

He started up the rickety stair well. It creaked and swayed beneath his weight as he moved. The spiral rose and rose, taking him to the very top of the very tall building.

At the top a console sat below the silent and still warning light. He moved toward it, pressing buttons and pushing levers. It was dead as a doornail. It would need power restored before it could be used to make an attempt to signal for help.

He came back down the stairs and told Leon the good news.

"So it would be a hail mary."

"Essentially. We have no idea if the damn thing would even work even IF we get the power back on."

Chris turned to Anna. "I want you to go up there. Go up to the console and wait. If it lights up, follow the instructions on how to light the beacon. You know enough to try to raise the locals on the CB up there?"

"I can do it. My dad was an air traffic controller. He showed me a lot of things. Can't be much harder then that."

Chris nodded. "Lock the door when you're up there, stay back from windows and the door. Huddle down, wait. If we don't come back and the console doesn't light up, you may have to decide if you want to wait it out or start moving again."

"Shouldn't I just come with you?"

"It's safer for you here then out there. You're unarmed, untrained. And scared. Plus we need somebody up in that booth. If we can get some local law enforcement out here, we may have a shot of containing this thing. We need this light house activated."

Anna nodded and started up the stairs.

Leon touched her arm and pointed to the window. "See the light of the moon on the grass there?"

"Yes."

"When that light has moved off that patch of grass, it will have been about two hours. If we aren't back by then, it will be time to make your choice."

"Ok…thank you."

They waited until they heard the door click shut up the stairs and the lock go down.

Chris turned to Leon. "There should be some kind of fuse box on the back side of the light house. We can start there. If it's just the building, it will fire right up. But if it's the whole grid, we'll need the main reactor."

They slipped out of the building, moving quietly around it toward the far side. The fuse box in question was open, the fuses already flipped.

"Someone's been here…recently."

"Yep." Leon turned and scanned the area. "Tracks lead this way."

"Should we follow them?"

"Probably. Odds are it's someone else with the same plan."

"Could be a trap too."

"Naturally."

But they followed the tracks. They were bare foot tracks, dainty almost. Someone female clearly with small feminine insoles. The tracks lead up and over the rise of the next hill. It showed the maintenance shed in the distance. The shed sat nestled like a sore thumb amongst the rushing water around it. The island was clearly powered by the dam here.

The shed door opened and both guns came up, pointed at the small red head that emerged.

"Claire!"

"Chris ?"

They hugged, quickly. She was wearing sweats and a tank in purple. She looked dirty but unharmed.

"Jesus Christ it's good to see you."

Claire smiled a little. "You too. Leon!" They embraced, briefly. "Anyone want to tell me where we are?"

Leon gave her his best guess.

"I figured as much. The intel coming in was clear it was out here right before this all happened. You know about the light house?"

"Yep."

"Then you know I'm trying to get it working."

"Us as well."

Claire dusted her hands off. "I think I reconnected a couple of wires. I found the maintenance manual in the shed here and figured out that after it's been reconnected, it needs the water turned back on to charge the generator, and we should be able to give power back to the island."

Chris looked out over the dam. The generator was located at the base of the falls. It was slightly obscured by the water rushing around it.

"Ok. I'll head down there and try to fire it up."

Claire touched his arm.

"No offense, Lone Ranger, but you might want to put on a pair of the boots in the shed here."

He glanced down at his bare feet. He noticed she was wearing shoes. And even Kennedy was wearing boots.

"Why didn't I get a pair of shoes?"

"I stole mine." Claire said, smiling.

Leon nodded. "Same."

Well now Chris just felt like the dumb guy in the group. Of course he had other attributes but clearly basic gear was not one of them. A little embarrassed, he moved into the shed to find some shoes.

Claire turned to Leon. "You found anyone else?"

"No." Leon glanced out through the fog. "You?"

"No. Came across a few dead bodies of people I knew. From the BSAA. But so far you guys are the only living ones."

"Chris found a girl. She's hiding in the light house. Anna?"

"Names not familiar. But good. If she's alive maybe there's more."

Leon was quiet for a few moments. "What were you doing when they took you?"

Claire shifted a little. "Honestly? I was getting ready for bed. They broke into my bathroom and jerked me out of the tub. Nothing like being kidnapped butt naked. You?"

The silence went own again for a long moment.. She waited, eyeing him. "Leon?"

"I wasn't alone." He met her eyes, held them. "Claire, I was with Sherry."

"Oh? At the ranch? Was anyone else hurt?"

"I don't know. We were alone." Leon sighed, considered sweetening things and just went with his gut. "We were naked too."

"Well I hope she's o-" She stopped and realized what he'd said. She froze, stared, forgot to breathe and choked on her own spit. And then she hit him. She hit hard in the chest.

"You dirty old man!"

He laughed a little, he couldn't help it. "It's not how it sounds."

"Oh yeah? I think you're saying you were fucking that little girl."

"She's not a little girl. She's twenty five years old. And she came on to me."

"Shut up!" Claire rolled her eyes. "You took advantage of her!"

"I didn't! I swear to god! She took off all her clothes and seduced me. I'm not made out of stone, Claire. Last time I checked, I still have a pulse."

Claire watched him, studying his face. "Oh my. My my my."

"What?"

"You have feelings for her." She said it with wonder. "You do."

Leon shrugged, uncomfortable, as always, with emotional conversations. "I've always had feelings for her. I basically helped raise her. It's so fucking complicated."

"It is." Claire smiled a little. "And it isn't. Tell me you didn't know she's always loved you."

He said nothing and Chris emerged from the shed.

"God damn it's good to wear shoes. I think shoes need their own birthday. Forget Facebook, shoes are the best thing that ever happened to the world besides the invention of the gun."

They started toward the edge of the falls. There was a rusty maintenance ladder that lead down to the ledge where the generator waited.

"So the twenty four thousand dollar question," Claire looked down the long distance to the bottom. "Will it hold a person's weight anymore?"

Chris looked at her. "You go."

"Why me?"

"You're thin and light. If it will hold anyone, it will hold you."

"And if it snaps?"

"The fall won't really hurt you. But it will be a pain in the ass to get back up."

Claire sighed and started down the ladder. It creaked, groaned, but held up as she climbed down the rusty rungs. At the bottom, she moved toward the generator. It was almost impossible to hear anything this close to the roar of the rushing water.

She started working on the generator. It had fuel in it and had crude directions drawn on the side in old black magic marker. She followed them and it sputtered, stuttered, and came to life with a coughing, hacking roar.

Proud of herself, she turned to give them a thumbs up.

And so she saw the beast as it dropped down, down, down and landed atop her brother.


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:** _A big thank you for the compliments on my writing. This is definitely one of the most mature pieces I've ever written. We back off on the love a little here to tackle the action. But the love returns soon enough. Thank you for reading. It's always humbling. Always._

* * *

 **Chapter 14: Alteration**

* * *

 _"Relinquished, revitalized...she couldn't bear the weight of wanting. And she plummeted further into the abyss.."_

* * *

 **Somewhere in the ocean, April**

The boat zipped, it clipped, it raced across the waves. It was so cold the skin of your face tried to turn to ice with each frigid gust.

He didn't care. He was immune.

He wasn't alone. Beside him, Barry Burton stood like a sentinel.

It wasn't the first time Barry had ridden the cover of darkness to save his daughter. Somewhere on that island, Moira waited. He told her to wait for him. There was nothing on Earth that would stop him.

Somewhere on that island, Claire was fighting for her life.

He hadn't left the sanctuary of his own fear for anything. Anything. ANYTHING.

He was racing into the dark to battle for the only thing in the world that did now.

Claire.

Piers whispered, softly, "Hang on, sweetheart, I'm comin for ya."

The only question was whether they'd get there in time.

* * *

 **Russia, April**

* * *

Half nightmare, half man, and half mutant from Swamp Thing. It looked like a horror movie version of a creature from the black lagoon and one of the hunters had had an ugly, scaly, hairy baby. It was at least eight feet tall and fat around the middle. It was hairy on the face and scaly on the body and yellow and red. The echo of Leon's gun was lost under the rushing water.

It jerked, it bled, and it backhanded him. He was airborne, lifted up and tossed, flying over the edge of the cliff. Claire was screaming, screaming, even as he went under the water and was gone. Chris wrestled with it, fought.

She watched it pick him up by the throat and shake him, shake him, shake him. And then it tossed him into the water as well. She couldn't, wouldn't think about his unconscious face as he went in. She didn't wait, couldn't. She leaped in after them.

The river rushed her away, it pushed, pulled, picked on her. It forced her to roll, to fight, to flip about and smash into rocks. She felt her arm open up and start bleeding, she felt smashed hard into the floor of gravel and rock, and bobble back up to gasp desperately for air. She was taken over the edge of another set of falls. Her arms pin wheeled, she screamed uselessly and plummeted beneath the dirty water as she landed.

But there was no current here. So when she surfaced, she was simply bobbing in the water. She swam toward the edge of the pool of water and flopped out onto the dry land. Or damp land. She stood, scanning the bubbling water, searching desperately for any sign of her boys.

"Claire!"

Farther down the rocky inlet, she saw Leon waving his hand at her. And she started running, wet and bleeding, down toward where he'd pulled her brother from the water.

Leon was doing CPR on her brother. Her brother wasn't breathing. Her brother wasn't breathing. Her brother…

She slapped his cold, wet face, shouting now. "Wake up! You stupid asshat! You wake up!"

On the third breath blown into his lungs, Chris let out a gurgling sputter. He rolled to his side and vomited up lungs full of water. Claire scooped his hair back from his face and pressed her nose against the broad expanse of his back, breathing so raggedly that she could barely stay upright.

Chris turned enough to put his arm around her and hold her. "I'm alright. Claire…I'm ok."

Leon sighed, pushed his soaked hair off his brow. "You son of a bitch. Facing down mutated freaks is one way to spend my day. But what makes you think I want to play tonsil hockey with you to keep you alive? You breath tastes like day old burritos."

Chris laughed a little and coughed again. "Well, I'm pretty sure I felt some tongue in there, you old pervert. Leon Kennedy…date rapist."

Leon snorted out a laugh. "You wish."

He rose and offered a hand down to Claire. She took it and they both helped Chris up.

"I'm fine. Really." With honesty, he met Leon's eyes, "Thank you."

"Sure. You'll likely get your turn soon enough."

They moved off toward the only opening out of the grotto where they'd fallen. It was a steel walkway over an endless drop into nothing. Unnerved, Chris kept Claire carefully within reach as they moved. Of course, if the walkway collapsed they were all dead anyway. But it was the thought that counted.

They moved into an open archway at the end of the walkway and found themselves in a wide open area. It appeared to be some kind of..

"Ring?"

And it was. It was like a gladiator's ring. Stands surrounded the mud-filled ring, empty, but waiting for butts to sit in them to witness the event. The ring was empty, not a thing but mud and more mud.

They moved across the open area toward the only exit out of the ring. And just as they crossed through the middle, a half dozen spotlights clicked on. Click, click, click. They were now illuminated in the glow of bright white light.

Claire froze. Chris, having lost his pistol, realized they were unarmed. Kennedy had lost his gun in the swim and fall as well.

Fantastic.

"Good job!" The voice echoed through the emptiness. "You made it this far! How wonderful!"

The three of them backed into a circle together, backs touching, eyeing all corners of the ring. They were waiting for it. Because they all knew something bad was coming.

"I saved a surprise for you! Are you excited? I do hate waiting! So no more waiting!"

And there was a loud metallic grinding noise. A door rolled upward straight across from them. And into opening stepped a familiar face.

"Don't you just love a good reunion?!" Cried the voice over the loudspeaker. "I'm going to let you all get reacquainted!"

And the familiar face in the doorway threw back its head and roared, "Starzzzzzzz!"

* * *

They pounded across a metal bridge, their bare feet eating up the distance with mindless abandon. The bridge stretched narrow and long across a very wide ravine. At the bottom were merciless tossing water and craggy dangerous rocks. Ada didn't look down, she just ran. The girl kept good time with her.

There was a metallic scream followed by a series of thumps and bumps and the bridge started to retract. On the far side, a face.

"HURRY!"

The tyrant was about twenty feet behind them. The bridge was rolling itself in.

Hurry sounded about right.

They ran and the girl stumbled. Ada grabbed her arm and shoved her forward, forcing them both into a neck-breaking race for safety.

They both leaped for the edge and were pulled up by a set of waiting hands. The bridge kept going and the tyrant, still eight feet from the edge leaped. It leaped. It leaped up and out as the bridge disappeared below it.

No one waited to see if it would land on the ground or in the water. They all started running.

The third addition to their ragtag group was brunette. This one had a swinging ponytail and very blue eyes. And was familiar.

This one was Jill Valentine.

They ran through a murky cavern, the dark closing in around them in a nearly oppressive burst. In the absence of light, they didn't wait. But a shoulder would strike rock and a head would glance off damp stone.

There were grunts and bumps and curses. The run became a steady slow adventure in picking your way through the solid darkness. Left, right, right, left. It was a series of making decisions that took them deeper in the labyrinthine nightmare of the darkness and the cave.

They could hear the tyrant roaring somewhere in the distance. Apparently, it was as lost as the rest of them in the darkness.

They finally emerged out of the darkness into a tiny craggy opening. They were standing on a very narrow ledge overlooking a great, huge, horrid, frightening abyss. Jill turned and looked upward.

"Climb."

And so they did.

Each of them attempted to find purchase on the rock and leveraged themselves upward. It was a perilous, terrible, frighteningly slow climb up the side of a very slippery surface. Ada was surprised the other girl had the ability to do it. She was clearly no laymen, not entirely, because no average person would have been able to climb so adeptly unless they had skill.

They reached the top after nearly a hundred yards of climbing. Jill was first over the edge, putting her hand down to pull Ada up and then help the girl up last. They dusted off their clothes and stood for a moment while the fear settled.

And Jill spoke again, "Sherry. Good to see you even if the situation sucks shit."

"Yeah, it is." They embraced, quickly.

"Ada," Jill shook hands with her, "I hate that you look beautiful in the middle of all this."

Ada laughed a little. And the other girl was staring at her now with something like…horror? Ada lifted a brow.

"The voice said we'd met. Have we?"

"You're Ada Wong?"

"So they tell me."

"I'm Sherry Birkin."

Sherry Birkin? The little daughter of William. They had met. Years before it seemed they'd met in Raccoon City. Of course, the little girl wasn't little anymore. And quite an accomplished agent from last she'd heard. She'd seen Birkin again in China but she didn't think the girl had been aware of her. She'd completely forgotten her in the time since Tatchi.

Ada smiled a little. "You grew up quite lovely."

"Thank you."

Jill looked around, studying the emptiness of the landscape. "There's a building over there. It's stupid to go inside it. But it's more stupid to wait out here in the open."

"Agreed."

They moved toward the building. It was huge and reminded Ada of the Colosseum in Rome. The door was already ajar as if waiting for them. Jill eased it open and glanced inside.

"It looks em—"

The tyrant landed on the top of the cliff back where'd they come. Apparently, it had just jumped up after them. A psychotic slaughtering Tigger with the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound. A psychotic slaughtering mutant hybrid between Tigger and Superman.

They shoved into the building now, fast, hurried. The roaring chased them down into the darkness of the building. They burst through a set of double doors and Jill stumbled, tripped, and went to her knees in the mud. Ada grasped her arm and yanked her up, throwing her toward the middle of the ring.

"Jill!?"

Claire Redfield's cry was loud and followed by a horrible, awful, terrible wail.

"STARZZZZZZZ!"

The thing was called the Nemesis. Ada had seen archetypes of it and drawings, she'd studied schematics and read reports. None of the paperwork did it justice. It was awful and huge and horribly ugly. It had once been a man and was now patchwork doll infected with hunger and rage. It lifted one arm fashioned into a Gatling gun and took aim.

The people scattered. Ada caught a glimpse of Leon, heard the yelling, saw the ducking and screaming. Bullets tore up dirt and peppered the silence left behind by that deafening roar. It sounded like thunderclaps over and over again.

There was no time to think, nowhere to hide. The ring was one big, wide open space of nothing. She felt mud splatter her legs as the bullets kicked up a mess where she'd been standing a moment before. She rolled, ran, spurring herself toward the wall of the farthest side. She leaped, caught the edge and pulled herself up.

Ada rolled through the bleachers until she was shielded on the floor by the wall. She turned her head and found frightened eyes staring back at her. Sherry Birkin had apparently had the same idea.

Claire was ten feet down and huddled as well. She breathed, softly, "Piers?"

There were negative head shakes around.

Her only hope here was that he had escaped being taken. If there was any luck in the universe, he was somewhere safe.

They were all huddled in fear and survival.

In fact, as the dust settled, Ada noticed they'd all run for the sides. And most were pressed on the ground, out of eye line, hiding.

Ada turned and nodded at Leon who had backed up to the wall about fifteen feet around in a semi-circle. He tipped an imaginary hat at her.

Jill belly crawled toward her and whispered, "He wants S.T.A.R.S. It's in his programming. He won't stop, won't quit until he kills us."

Ada met her eyes and knew what she would say next.

"I'll go down there. I'll lead him away. Take these people and run."

Claire was shaking her head. "Don't be stupid. Don't."

Gunfire exploded down in the ring and they all covered their ears and hunkered farther down. It went on and on and on. And halted as a body leaped over the wall and landed in a less than graceful roll two feet from where Ada was crouched.

She and Chris stared at each other in the painfully loud silence. And she felt like someone had ripped out her heart and stuffed it down her throat. She hated herself for wanting to throw her body into his arms.

It was a purely female reaction. It was utterly unlike her.

But so was loving him.

And that burned in her life some kind of fire without end.

He moved closer to where they huddled, low and quiet. Jill grinned a little, "You look like hairy shit, Redfield. But I've never loved your furry face more."

Chris grinned wider and fist bumped Jill. "Valentine - you look like a filthy fuck toy. What's that shirt you're barely wearing?"

"Like that? It's my sexy-stuck-in-a-maze-with-a-bomb-in-my-neck tank top and sweats."

"You're workin it."

"Clearly."

The interesting thing about the conversation was that he hadn't really looked away from Ada most of the time he was talking. He'd drifted closer until their sides and hips and arms were aligned against the wall. He had blood on his neck and scratches on his collarbone. He was filthy and soaked and bruised.

He looked wonderful.

Ada shifted a little closer, keeping her eyes on the rest of the group. She wanted to keep staring at him. But she was careful not to. However, she allowed herself the slightest brush of their fingers where they dangled by each other while they crouched.

For Ada Wong, that much of a touch in public like this was almost like a hug.

Chris turned his eyes from her to Jill. "You told me. I should have listened. That fucking thing is ridiculous."

"Yeah," Jill laughed and touched his arm, "There's a tyrant coming for us. It will be here soon."

Chris tilted his head, snorted. "Okay. Okay." He turned and whispered, "Kennedy…Jill and I will get this thing to face down the tyrant."

Claire kept shaking her head. "Don't be stupid. Don't be stupid. This is suicide."

"Claire, it wants Jill and I. That's it. That's all it knows. We can lead it to the tyrant. Maybe they'll kill each other. Maybe they'll kill us. But you guys have half a shot here to get out alive."

"Don't be stupid. We can just keep it here until the tyrant gets here. They'll see each other as the biggest threat and kill each other right?"

Jill shook her head, "The Nemesis doesn't care about anything but it's programming. Its directive is to kill STARS. That's what it will do. Anyone gets in its way, goes down the same."

Leon said, quietly, "I'll get them out. If we get split up, Ada, Sherry, and Claire need to circle back toward the lighthouse. West side of the island, follow the moonlight on the grass...you can't miss it. "

All the women nodded.

Claire said, "This is stupid, Chris. It's retarded. We should stick together."

"We shouldn't be here at all, Claire. But here we are. Go. And let me do this. Just once? Listen to me."

They inched forward. Ada slid her hand down when the attention was off them. Her fingers brushed the inside of his wrist. Her palm slid against his, their fingers twined and blended, and she squeezed hard. She waited to be sure they were mostly ignored and turned her head. He was already there, kissing her smooth and soft.

Just once.

She touched his bearded cheek, "...be careful."

"You too." Another press of mouth. They stared.

Ada realized Jill Valentine was watching them with owl eyes.

She let go of him.

He said, quietly, "Stay safe, Ada. Protect Claire."

She nodded and didn't want to let go. But it didn't matter.

Time was up. Because the Nemesis' gun was revving up again.

"GO!"

He stood up and ran, drawing its eye away from the huddle. Jill threw herself the other direction.

The attention of it was split, its inner core unable to fire in two directions at once. It calculated, correctly saw Chris as the bigger threat, and opened fire in his direction.

Leon jerked his head and he, Claire, Ada, and Sherry belly crawled toward the far side of the bleachers and the exit. At the far side, they moved through the door, staying as soundless as possible. The gunfire faded and was getting farther and farther away.

Outside the ring, there was no sound but the distant rush of water. They all rose, scanning the area.

Claire was the first to speak. "I'm going back for my brother. I'm going back."

"Don't be stupid," Leon shook his head, scanning the darkness, "Don't trivialize his sacrifice here Claire. He deserves better than that."

She felt the tears on her face and swiped an angry hand at them. Her fucking brother and this hormonal shit she was handling was turning her into a weeping willow. Annoying as fuck. "I can't let him die."

"He won't," Ada said calmly though she felt her heart racing, "He and Jill…they never die. This is just one more day."

The gunfire sounded again, louder, closer. The four of them started moving, running away from the gunfire, running…where?

Where?

They could see nothing through the fog. The darkness and the fog were blinding, stealing, awful. They were outgunned, outnumbered, outmaneuvered. They had no cards here, no hope. And in the distance, the fighting and struggling sound filled the air.

They tyrant had met the Nemesis.

The slap of feet and pain from the rocks on bare skin. The feel of the cold seeping through the bones. The smell of the ocean so close, so far, so huge. Trapped, they still ran on because the rat will run, and keep running, long after it realizes the futility.

They pushed into another building and Sherry stumbled, slipped on the smooth floor, and slid on her bottom to bump against the far wall. This building appeared to be an infirmary. There were beds upon rows of hospital beds on either side of a long narrow room. Cabinets with glass fronts were raided but still held the obvious signs of medical supplies. A tray of instruments had been overturned on one of the beds and clamps and scalpels, a rib spreader, and rolls of suture littered the floor.

There was a puddle of drying blood a few feet from one of the beds and a blood trail toward the far door. The door appeared to be tightly shut. It was hard to make out much in the darkness but the infirmary appeared to be empty. There were only two doors and one was locked tight, the other had been the one they'd burst through.

Leon turned to Ada. "I need to go check on them."

"Don't be stupid."

"Ada…there's a half dozen buildings here. They won't know which one to find us in. And this is as safe as it's going to get for the time being. If they need help, I can help them."

Ada opened her mouth to answer and the door burst open. Jill came through with Chris leaning heavily on her.

Claire let out a loud gasp and moved forward. Jill had one hand clamped over a bleeding wound on his chest.

"The Tyrant. It took a swipe for me." Her eyes were too wide. "He stepped in the way."

Chris shrugged a little but the gesture had cost him. He was pale and the claw marks on his chest were bleeding, badly. "I'll live."

Claire turned and ran into the darkness, searching the cabinets. "It's too fucking dark! I can't see a damn thing!"

Sherry leaped onto the counter, trying to reach the higher cabinets. "We need some hemostat. And clean bandage. I saw some suture. It's risky to try to sew him up with nothing sterile but it's the best we can do."

"We can't do anything in the dark!" Jill lead him to a bed and helped him lie back on it. Grateful, Chris hissed in pain as he leaned against the wall.

Ada took a pair of scissors to start to cut away his shirt from the wound.

"Wait. Wait. Here." He lifted his arms and she slid it off him. And saw how the gesture cost him. "Don't cut up the only fucking shirt I've got."

She said nothing and picked up a bundle of gauze to swipe gently at some of the blood. She wished she could see how bad it was. It was so fucking da—

There was a hum, a pop, and the emergency lights clicked on with a clunk. The sudden brightness caused them all to start squinting.

Leon said, quietly, "Good girl."

Chris nodded, "Anna."

Ada had to smile at the pleasure of having light again. It was something she'd been taking for granted and then her eyes turned down to his wounds. And the pleasure turned, curdled, and filled her belly with cold, horrible, painful lead.

It was bad. It wasn't just bad. It was horrible. The sheer size and muscle of him had been the only thing that saved him from being cleaved in two. The skin was split like ripe fruit. Three horrible lines from the base of his left shoulder to mid collarbone. Either adrenaline was keeping him functioning or the wound was more superficial than it appeared because he apparently still had use of both arms.

He watched her face and his voice was quiet, "That bad huh?"

She lifted her eyes to his face and couldn't keep it blank. She tried so hard but she couldn't keep it empty.

Her hand flattened on the gauze against one slice and applied pressure. He lifted his and laid it on hers. "It's ok, Ada."

"We'll get you cleaned up."

"Ada." His voice was so calm. She raised her eyes to his face. His pale, pale face.

"Truth now, Ada."

"It doesn't look good." Her voice broke, startling her. It touched him. His breathing so slow. He seemed calm.

Either insanity or blood loss. He just wasn't panicking.

"Ok." He rubbed her hand, "It's alright, Ada. Look at my face."

She dragged her eyes up from the wounds. The horrible wounds. He was bleeding everywhere. It wasn't bad...not just bad...it was _mortal_. His face said he knew it.

Ada realized he was shaking. It made sense. He was probably cold from losing blood. The room was cold, he was shirtless, he was wounded, it made sense that he would start to shake as hypothermia set in.

And then?

She realized it wasn't him at all.

It was HER.

She was shaking.

She whispered, "...you made me love you."

They held eyes. He smiled, sadly, "I know. I'm sorry."

"...please don't die."

It was such a sad request from someone like her. She said it and wanted it back. Because it made her vulnerable. But it was out there. It was the truth. She breathed, "Please."

"I'm so sorry, Ada." He sounded so broken.

She felt broken.

It was the most horrible moment she'd ever experienced...and why she had rules in place to prevent it.

He didn't even really have the strength to lift his other hand. She laid hers on it and flipped it over, touching his fingers. "...you made me love you."

His eyes fluttered. His mouth was pale and blue. He laughed, lightly, "Regrets?"

She touched his face, just a little, "...none."

Claire made a sound in her throat and Ada stepped aside as she came over. "You stupid buffoon! You moron. You dolt." She laid a tray on the bed with needles and suture. Sherry arrived with a half a bottle of hemostat.

Claire lifted the needle and moved toward his skin. He shook his head, stopping her.

"This is the end of the road for me, Claire. The look on your face says you know it."

Ada felt her throat tighten. The shift of his arm had split one wound farther across his chest. She could see bone now in the opening and muscle shredded. Jesus.

"This is it," He said it again, softly. "And it's ok."

Claire shook her head but she didn't move the needle closer. "No. No. You're so stupid. Why are you so stupid?" There was an edge of panic in her voice now and grief. Raw, terrible grief.

"It's my penis," He said softly and laughed, "Makes me stupid. Get the hell out of here. Have babies. You'll be a helluva mother."

Leon turned back and cursed, "You fucking hero. You serious right now?"

"Am I ever?"

Leon shook his head and they saw the wounds split farther. In the opening of it? They could SEE his heart beating. Horrible. Horrible.

Leon met his eyes, held them. "We're even now."

"Even," Chris agreed and nodded at him. Leon turned and walked back toward the door. The best he could do now was give the man the privacy to die in peace.

Jill took his face and her voice caught, thick with grief, "I can't do this without you. I need you. Let her stitch you up."

"Jill…look at me. There's no fixing this." He felt cold now. It was coming and quickly. He slipped a little in his own blood on the table and Jill steadied him. "Get my sister home. Please."

Jill felt her face collapse as she tried and failed to swallow the sob. "I will. I swear to god I will."

He nodded and settled his head back against the wall. "Give me a minute with Ada. Please?"

Claire shifted away and Jill followed her, moving toward Leon. Chris felt the grief tug at him as he heard the crying, soft, desperate. She never cried. It hurt to hear it. His baby sister. She'd be alright.

The breathing was hard now and heavy. "Ada."

She was stoic, her face tight. "Christopher."

"Karma is a bitch right?"

"Karma? What karma is it that leaves a good man dead?"

"Good man? Good man. I'm a killer, Ada. Eventually? The killer dies. That's karma."

She touched the side of his face and the skin was clammy and cold. He felt the tremble in her arm and turned his eyes to her. "Don't cry. I'll lose all hope if you cry. I have to die like a hero here. I can't weep like a baby. Kennedy over there? He'll laugh at me."

She laughed a little and leaned over him. She pressed her mouth to his, soft.

"I'm sorry. I should have followed you. I'm so sorry."

"Not sorry," He gasped as the anvil on his chest became nearly unbearable. It wouldn't be long now. "It is trite to say I love you?"

"Yes, terribly trite," She put her forehead to his and her tear dripped onto his cheek, "I adore trite. I love you too." And she whispered it against his mouth.

But he couldn't hear her anymore. He had slipped into a coma. She leaned back, felt the panic rear its head. And she wanted to shake him, wanted to scream, wanted to lay on the floor and cry until the pieces of her fell out broken and raw.

She wore the pain of him like stilettos: sharp, high, perfectly made for her. The fallout of forever was here. And why you didn't love someone like this.

She climbed onto the bed beside him and wrapped her arm around his waist. And she held him, pressed tight against her, she held him. And listened to the sound of his heart as it slowed, slowed, and Ada felt the madness well up inside of her.

No amount of holding would keep him here now. No amount of strength or fighting. Nothing. It was too late for that. Too late for any of it. At this moment she couldn't figure out what she'd been so afraid of. What did it matter if she loved him? If she let him in? Why was she running from the idea of it? There were no promises here, no tomorrow, no guarantees. And she'd spent what little time they'd had afraid it would rob her of herself.

It all seemed so stupid now, so trivial. And she wished as she waited for his last breath, that she could just go back. Just go back and get that time again. She wouldn't waste a moment worrying about what might happen and live for what was happening.

Instead, she did nothing, could do nothing, and simply held on to him as if the sheer force of her will would keep him with her. Her hands covered his wounds, the blood hot and sticky on her skin. And she felt the grief thrust into her in a nearly killing blow.

This was how it ended for him. It was so wrong. So anticlimactic. Such a proud, strong, wonderful man brought down by a single blow. It was almost pathetically poetic.

And something clicked in her head, shifted, and clicked.

She lifted her eyes, turned them to the blonde standing at the foot of the bed. "You're Sherry Birkin."

"Yes."

Ada grabbed her, fast and immediate. The girl was too surprised to struggle as Ada grabbed the scissors lying there and sliced open her arm from wrist to elbow.

Claire let out a loud horrified scream. "Oh my god!"

Sherry looked at the wound in shock and then lifted her eyes to Ada. And something shifted in her expression. "I can only try."

"Then try. And hurry."

Ada shifted out of the way as Sherry placed her bleeding arm on Chris, sliding her wounds over his. Her blood had healing properties, a gift from her Dad's genetic experimentation. It was her birthright. And she wasn't sure it was transferable. She'd never tried before. But they had nothing, nothing to lose by trying now.

When her arm closed up, she sliced it open again. And this time she put her bleeding arm to his mouth and spilled the blood into it.

She reached into his bleeding chest and squeezed his shredded heart.

But nothing happened. Nothing. He lay there and nothing happened. Then, just like that, he stopped breathing.

And, in an anticlimactic fashion befitting a much less important man, Chris Redfield - the hero of Raccoon City- the man who'd outlived his own demise countless times- the guy who was immortal and apparently incapable of defeat- gave one sharp choppy sound - rattled and shook a little - and died in his own blood.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15: Pontification**

* * *

 _"What madness speaks. What madness reeks. What madness leaks...from mouths and words that wage a war of lies.."_

* * *

 **The Maze, Russia, April**

There's a silence that pervades after death. It fills up a room like water in a cup. It shifts the dynamic of the room until it feels like those left behind are existing inside a bubble of grief and pain. Ada wasn't entirely sure she could draw a full breath.

She waited, watched, waited, watched and his chest didn't rise again. She should check his pupils…she should check his pupils for fixation and dilation. But she couldn't do it. She couldn't. She couldn't do it.

Leon stepped forward and checked for a pulse. The sound of ragged weeping from Claire was loud. It was the only sound. And it was horrible. He met Ada's eyes and shook his head.

She turned away and moved toward the door.

"We need to find something, anything, that might be a map of some kind."

Claire sobbed quietly into her hands. She was huddled on the floor, holding herself.

Leon shifted and looked at Jill. Jill was staring off into space as if listening to voices only she could hear. He figured he, Sherry, and Ada were the only three still remembering that they were in immediate and mortal danger. And it wasn't doing Chris any honors to stand here weeping.

It sounded so logical in his head…but he still hadn't taken his hand off the dead man's shoulder. If he moved his hand it was done. It was over. And that final thing was the most painful thing he'd ever done.

So he squeezed that shoulder, one more time, and then he let go.

Sherry touched his arm and Leon turned his head to meet her eyes. In the rush of things, he hadn't stopped to acknowledge how wonderful and awful it was that she was here too. Someone was playing a very dangerous game.

He squeezed her hand and held it for a long moment before letting it go. He started to search amongst the spilled documents for any kind of coordinates or something relevant to where they were and how to get where they needed to go.

Sherry began searching as well. Ada was already digging through the desk at the far side of the room. Leon moved to the door there and jiggled the knob.

Locked.

So he put a boot on it and kicked it open. The cheap lock gave with a snap and opened to an office. A dead body lay on the floor holding a revolver in its hand. Clearly, the person had hidden in here and put themselves out of their misery. The room was stocked with a fair amount of supplies from food to medical needs. Leon picked up the revolver and then started to dig amongst the files in the office.

The map of the island was pretty easy to find. There was even a little arrow and sticker on it that said YOU ARE HERE. It was clearly meant for visitors to the compound. And it showed what he'd already suspected.

They were on an island. The island was about ten miles wide from one end other. It was made up of about eight buildings from a cafeteria, an infirmary, the lab, the barracks. The overseer's home sat farther away and was backed by the lighthouse and the tower. The eighth building had been the testing ground.

The infirmary was about a half mile east of the overseer's home. Ten to one said it was a mansion. He had to agree with Barry…he was sick of mansions.

He came out of the office and went to show Chris the map.

And then he remembered that he was dead.

Chris Redfield was dead.

Everything they'd done and survived and this is where it ended. He ended up gutted like a fish bleeding to death in some god forsaken hell hole. Couldn't he have at least been granted the dignity to die old and in his bed with some woman's mouth around his cock?

Apparently not.

Claire was standing now and had finally stopped weeping although he could see the sobbing had taken its toll. He stepped forward and took her face in his hand. "When we get off this island, we will have a drink to honor him. We will tell stories and gnash our teeth and curse the heavens. But Claire, look at me."

She focused on his face. "We have to go on now. Staying here, dying with him, you know he wouldn't have any of it. He'd skin me alive if I let anything happen to you."

She nodded and seemed to draw strength from him. "I won't fail him. I'm ready."

Leon gestured. "I know you are. Good girl. I'm going to go out first, scout around. We need to know if the tyrant is still out there and Nemesis. Stay here, for now, stay together. Nobody venture out. I think we should go by the barracks first and try to find some damn weapons. There's got to be something out there we can use."

He gestured at the office. "The lab worker in there is female. Ada - I think her shoes might fit you."

Ada moved into the office to divest the corpse of anything useful.

And Leon disappeared out into the dark.

Ada emerged wearing the shoes. She passed the lab coat to Jill to put on over her ripped tank top. The four women were very, very quiet. But it was Jill that spoke first.

"I didn't know you were involved with him."

Ada said nothing.

"He never said a word about it."

Claire studied Ada and there was something on her face. It was hard and angry and mean.

"Please tell me you're not the reason he's dead."

Ada met that angry gaze. And her face was tight and very blank.

"You backstabbing bitch…it's your fault he's here. They took him to get to you, didn't they? Are these people you worked for once? Old friends, Ada? Did you steal something from them and now they want revenge?" Claire shoved her and Ada stumbled but didn't back down.

Jill tried to intervene. "Whoa whoa, Claire. Hold on. We don't know anything about what's going on here. If they just wanted Ada, why are we all here?"

"I don't know," Claire shoved her again, "But I know this. Somebody stole this bitch while she was in bed with my brother. From the moment he let her come to work for him, we've had nothing but messes to clean up in her wake. She's lied, stolen, backstabbed and betrayed every person she's ever met. Did you betray him, you bitch?"

And finally, Ada answered, quietly, "I don't know."

"You don't know?! My brother is DEAD! I think it's about time you figured it out!"

Sherry grabbed Claire's arm as she went to slap Ada. "Claire! It's not her fault. Stop it! She's in this too ok? And someone wants us all. Just stop it!"

Claire spat on the floor at Ada's feet. "Dangling Leon off your claws all these years wasn't enough huh? You had to add my brother to the notches on your bedpost. You fucking black widow…you kill everyone who gets too close to you."

Ada said nothing as Sherry dragged Claire away from her. She stayed there, leaning against the wall where she'd been pushed. Jill spoke gently into the silence.

"She's wrong. She's crazy with grief and wrong," She met Ada's eyes, "I saw how you looked at him. I saw him look at you. If she wasn't blind right now, she'd see it too. Help me get revenge for him."

They held eyes for a long, long moment and finally, Ada nodded. Jill said, softly, "I loved him too. Sometimes it feels like all my life. I loved him too."

The women joined hands and squeezed. It said more than a hug. Two beautiful women joined in grief over the body of the man they'd both loved.

The door eased open and Leon moved into the room again.

"The way is clear from here to the barracks. For now. The doors locked and I can't just bust it down. There's a window above it but I need one of you lovely ladies to volunteer to get boosted up there."

Ada turned away and let them talk it out. She moved back toward where Chris lay, still and quiet. He was pale, so pale, but besides that was the peace that had settled around him. The great and wide and awful darkness in him was gone now. He wouldn't suffer anymore. There was only peace here. He'd been chasing it for so long.

Part of her was glad he'd found it.

She leaned down and pressed a kiss to his cold, cold mouth and whispered, "I will avenge you. I swear on my life, I will avenge you."

Her hand trembled as she laid it on his cold cheek. She put her mouth to his ear to whisper her last words to him and she lifted his hand to lay it on her belly. "This isn't your end, Chris Redfield. _I_ _will avenge you._ "

Her narrow shoulders collapsed around her, just for a moment, a brief moment...a second...a flutter...of wings...and all the grief she'd allow herself. All the time she'd let herself hold on. Just a breath. Just a goodbye.

Just a kiss.

She rose and turned, moving toward the door. Claire was watching her through narrowed eyes. Sherry and Jill were both watching her with sympathy. She stopped beside Leon and turned her eyes to him.

"I'll go through the window."

He nodded. And there was something on his face that was sympathetic as well. She'd expected jealousy or anger. But he was looking at her with understanding and pity. And grief. And she wanted to fall against him and weep.

Because it was nearly a physical ache, she moved out of the door and into the darkness beyond.

Leon paced beside her as they moved.

When they paused and she prepared to go up, his hand settled on her arm and held, lightly. "Did he know?"

They held eyes in the quiet dark.

A loaded question. "Know what?"

Leon's look was long-suffering look. "Don't play games, Ada."

"Life is a game, Leon. You know that."

His look was cool and patient.

Sighing with frustration, Ada mused shrewdly and shook her head, "No. How did you?"

His eyes were very blue in the moonlight, "Must be all that keen intellect I'm known for."

Ada said nothing.

He held her dark gaze, "I have to protect you, Ada. It's what he'd want."

"I don't need your protection, Leon. I never have. Put me through the window."

He boosted her up without any trouble and she crawled through the window at the barracks. The well-lit room was similar to the infirmary. It was rows and rows of bunk beds and side tables with lamps on it. It was surprisingly well maintained. There was nary a corpse or an overturned table to be seen.

She undid the lock and opened the door.

A set of stairs sat off to the left that led down to the second floor. Ada moved down the stairs with Leon behind her. Claire, Sherry, and Jill began searching amongst the beds on the first floor. If there was anything worth finding, they'd find it.

The second level was where everyone had fled to die. The stench of rotting meat met you the moment you hit the bottom three steps. Ada shuddered but kept moving.

Bodies were piled atop each other in various states of decay. Most he been dispatched by a quick bullet to the head. Ada stepped over two dead women and moved toward the far side of the basement. A door was slightly ajar with a man's body keeping it open and wedged in between. Ada shifted the door open farther and stepped into the room.

This was where all the weapons were. They were piled up on a desk. There were pistols and revolvers, a shotgun was propped against the desk, and a freaking katana lay bloody and sharp on the floor. Ada lifted a brow at Leon.

"Well, obviously Michonne has been here."

Ada picked up the katana. A quick check and combining of available rounds gave them enough weapons to give one each to their group. Of course, Ada wouldn't have a gun. But she had a sword. Sadly this seemed inadequate against the Nemesis. But she was betting she and Leon were the only ones with any formal training to use it.

Leon said, "Chris was aces with a katana."

Surprised, she lifted her gaze from the sword. He held her look, quietly, "Yep. The guys was a fucking samurai in his soul. I thought he was messing around. He dressed like one for Halloween one year. I challenged him to a duel..."

He laughed a little, shaking his head, "My mistake. For a big guy, mother fucker is fast as hell."

His smile froze, "...was. He _was_ fast as hell."

Ada whispered, softly, "...not fast enough it seems. Not nearly fast enough."

The sword spilled from her hand to the table with a clank of metal. She put her face in her hands and hunched, just a little, around herself. Her body bowed in and curled.

He moved without thinking, scooping her in against him. Ada looped her fingers into his tank top and squeezed. Her face pressed into his chest. Leon thought, he'd never in his life seen anything worse than Ada Wong weeping.

She clung, almost desperately. Leon couldn't remember ever hugging her. In all the time he'd known her, how many times had they even touched?

And here she stood, grieving for Chris Redfield in his arms. Surreal.

She did it so softly. Almost silently. Her body jerked in little spasms against his. Leon stroked her back and put his cheek on her head, rocking a little. "It's alright, Ada. It'll be alright."

Claire was frozen on the stairs, watching.

Maybe she was blind with grief, but she wasn't stupid. Ada Wong was grieving for her brother.

It made the pain of it hurt just a little less to know that Ada Wong had loved him. Ada Wong had loved her brother.

Whatever good it did, he'd died loved.

He still deserved better.

Leon cupped her face and turned it up to him. His thumbs swiped away the tears on her cheeks. Beautiful, he thought, when she cried, when she was vulnerable - the formidable Ada Wong was beautiful when she was human.

"Not yet. Let's avenge him. First, vengeance, Ada. Then grief."

She nodded, nodded again, and tugged his hands from her face. She swiped the heels of her palms over her cheeks, wiping away the tears. "Thank you. I apologize for that. I'm ready now."

He said nothing as they moved back to the stairs.

They gave Sherry and Claire each a pistol as they reached the top floor again. Jill was given the shotgun. The small, bloody, tired group looked amongst each other and nodded. They moved to head back out into the cold and clammy night.

And the intercom sparked to life.

"So far so good! A shame about Chris! I really thought he'd be the hero again! But such is the way of things! The good news is you've made it this far, the bad news is time is running out. You are each equipped with a tracker implanted in your neck. It tells me where you are and where you are going. It also acts a detonator should you try to escape my playground here. So don't get any bright ideas about that. The devices are on a timer, they will detonate themselves at dawn. So that leaves you…seven hours to find me, kill me, and save yourselves! Tick tock!"

The voice faded away again.

Claire spoke first. "I'm going to end that bitch."

They stepped out into the darkness…and came face to face with three hunters. Each group was surprised, the human and non-human alike. The hunters began to roar in excitement.

The group scattered as one leaped and landed in the middle of them. Jill answered its screaming jaws with a blast from the shotgun. It was tossed off its feet by the short distance below, thrown away to writhe and die on the ground a few feet away.

The second made a swipe at Ada and she severed its arm at the elbow with an easy blow from the katana. It retreated, spraying blood as it ran. The third eyed her, considering.

"Don't be stupid. Follow your friend."

It hissed, gnashed its teeth, and charged her.

She felt the air shift as it leaped and came down toward her. Ada parried, waited, and thrust the sword straight through its chest as it landed on her. It drove them both to the ground with its weight and she used that momentum to drive the blade home, feeling it burst free from the back of the hunter in a gush of blood.

It roared and she twisted that blade, jerked it back and forth, shredding the heart and doing as much damage as she could. It was dead atop her after no more than a few moments. She struggled out from beneath it and kicked the body over. With an angry jerk, she pulled her blade free.

"I told you to run, you idiot."

Soaked in blood, she joined the others. And they moved toward the tower in the distance.

They were almost to the mansion when they saw the horde. It was gathered around the base of the gate to the building beating at the bars. Hundreds of zombies, mewling and moaning, searching for food and relief. There was no logical way through. None.

And no way they could kill all those zombies their selves.

As if to answer the question, the roar went up into the night. "STARZZZZ!"

The Nemesis came around the edge of the building toward them. With no other option, they raced toward the horde.

Jill drew its attention, she rushed into the biggest mass of bodies. They grabbed for her and she ducked, pushed, dodged and the let the Nemesis open fire. They were like a putrid, stinking, rotting human shield. Their bodies began to absorb bullets and fall, smashing into each other. She crouched and moved amongst their dancing bodies, heading toward the gate. The gate was locked, tight, but the wall beside it was crumbling.

Jill jerked at rocks, knocking away zombie hands and desperation until she could climb through the small hole she'd made. On the other side of the fence, she moved to unlock the gate. Sherry, Ada, Claire and Leon barreled through the tiny opening she made and she threw the lock again, feeling the rotting teeth of a zombie on her hands as she did. They ducked and crouched, running low to the ground toward the building.

The Nemesis was now wading into the zombies, tossing them aside as it tried to locate Jill.

They burst through the doors into the mansion. It was beautiful and very, very open. A chandelier as wide as a bus dangled over the shiny, mirror floor casting jeweled daggers of light. The mirror beneath their feet was spotless and reflected their fear back at them as they ran toward the stairs. The staircase split in the middle and opened up to run up either side of the giant fountain in between. The fountain was a twisted metal creation of copper and iron.

There was nowhere to go at the top of the stairs. The one door was locked tight.

"Where now?!" Sherry cried and the Nemesis burst into the mansion, roaring.

Zombies began to pour in around it. Annoyed, the Nemesis did something amazing…it became their unlikely ally. It started to kill the undead around it. Its programming told it to eliminate all threats. And the zombies were trying to eat it.

It turned the gun on them and opened fire.

Leon was trying to get the door open. But it was obvious it was on some kind of mechanism or timer. It wasn't budging. He started feeling for secret panels or levers. And then his eyes turned to the chandelier.

He and Ada had the same thought at the same time.

He moved toward it, judging the distance. Sherry, realizing what madness he was planning, shook her head. "Are you crazy?"

"It will take out most of them in one move. And we need the Nemesis to open that door for us. You three get out of the way. Jill…get ready to lead it up here toward that door." Leon handed Ada his pistol and took the katana. He backed up to the wall and started running, full speed.

At the edge of the balcony, he jumped. It seemed a handful of long moments passed with him airborne before he landed, grabbing the edge of the chandelier and hoisting himself up on it. He climbed upward, hearing the tinkle of crystal. At the top, he studied the way it was bound to the ceiling. Without a screwdriver, he wasn't going to get the bolts off. He stuck the blade of the katana against the plate that held it and dangled, using his body weight to jerk it free. It protested but shifted, showing the internal components of wire and cable that held it in place. Leon began to saw at it with the sword.

The chandelier began to shift, began to list to one side, and the weight of itself began to pull it free of its bindings. Leon swung back and forth on it, like Tarzan on a vine in the jungle and leaped free to land on the railing again.

He climbed over, turned, and watched. With a groan of steel and surrender, the chandelier jerked free of its bindings. It plummeted into the waiting bodies below and struck with a scream of breaking crystal and twisting metal. The fountain bowed and broke beneath the assault, spewing water all over the smashed corpses beneath, sloughing skin and congealed blood off in a burst of wet and horror.

Only a few stragglers remained and the Nemesis cut them down in a spray of blood and bullets. It had been smart enough to move aside of the falling threat. The silence was golden now and loud in the previously cacophonous roar of death and breaking chandelier.

The Nemesis stepped through water and ruin, moving to mount the stairs and follow them.

It lifted its arm to take aim with that gun and Leon brought the sword down. It arced, sliced, and bit into the arm of the Nemesis above that gun. With something like surprise, the Nemesis turned its attention but was too slow. Leon hacked at it again, and again, and the arm fell away, clunking and clanking on the stairs, bisected from its body.

The Nemesis let out a roar of anger and backhanded him. Leon was lifted up and tossed. He went over the edge of the railing and tumbled down into the mass of a mess below. The fall should have killed him but he was cushioned by the dead gathered like a fleshy pillow beneath. It took his breath away and his body told him he'd be in a lot more pain later when the adrenaline wore off. But it was worth it. The Nemesis had lost its gun.

It leveled the playing field a little.

He picked up the sword and moved, stumbling a little as he hurried toward the stairs. He could hear the women yelling, fighting.

And he heard the Nemesis burst through the door, just like they'd planned.

As he came around the corner he saw that it had Jill. It had its hand around her throat and was dangling her.

"STARZZZZZ!"

Something horrible was emerging from it now. Tentacles, fat, purple and horrible tentacles were whipping around it like Slender Man gone wrong. One slapped at Sherry as she rushed forward and knocked her into a roll that left her very, very still on the floor ten feet away.

Claire was a little better at avoiding them. She ducked and rolled. She even managed to leap onto the back of the Nemesis and attempt to choke it.

But one of those tentacles wrapped around her three times and dangled her, upside down away from its body. It was crushing her to death now. Leon lifted the sword and brought it down, cleanly severing that tentacle.

The Nemesis turned, roaring. It dropped Jill who crawled away, coughing.

It knocked the sword from his hand and wrapped a tentacle around him now. Leon struggled but futilely. It lifted him and smashed him into the wall, once, twice, three times. He felt his body sing with the pain of it. And then it squeezed him.

The pressure built in his torso, it compressed his lungs and chest. He felt his bones began to bend start to head toward breaking. He wondered if his eyeballs were popping out of his skull from it. He had become the Nemesis' damnit doll. It was almost amusing. There was the loud blast of the shotgun firing.

And then the pressure released, slowly. He felt air rush into his lungs, painfully, as he was lowered toward the ground. The Nemesis jerked, spastically. And its head tumbled from its neck, cleaved from its body.

It went down on its face, dropping him to the ground. And its back was raw hamburger from the shotgun blast.

Ada stood over it, holding the sword. Jill was ranged beside her, holding the shotgun on the still body.

Ada drove the sword into it again, over its chest. It sparked and surged, a surge of electricity ran through the control panel as it short-circuited.

Sherry was climbing to her feet. "It has a backup power source."

Ada nodded. "That's going to be at the main control room. This will disable it for now. We've got some time before it will revive."

Leon studied it and asked the obvious question. "Is it dangerous without its head?"

Ada gave him a long-suffering look. He shrugged. "Just felt like I should ask."

They moved over the balcony, deeper into the mansion. A long hallway stretched before them. It was empty save for suits of armor on either side. The last time suits of armor had been around, they'd been dangerous.

Leon kept the women in a straight line as they walked, as far from the hatchets and axes as they could get. He was very, very aware of the danger they were in as they moved.

The door at the end of the hallway was locked. Of course.

And the door from which they came slammed shut and locked.

A metal grinding sound drew their eyes upward. The ceiling flipped and showed long, deadly, dangerous spikes. And the suits of armor shivered, shook, and started to step in poofs of dust from where they stood sentinel.

They moved with clanks and clangs of metal toward the waiting group. And the ceiling began to lower, one painful inch at a time.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16: Reincarnation**

* * *

 _"Death is not final, no, not yet. She waits and bleeds and weeps. And the silence fills her soul."_

* * *

 **The Maze, Russia, April**

It was death in either direction. Either hacked into pieces by magical armor or stabbed to death by foot long spikes.

What a joy.

The door slid a tray out and carved into the tray were words: The gift of life grants the way forward.

Sherry shoved him out of the way.

"Don't let these assholes get me. I know what it wants."

She held out her wrist toward Ada and waited. The other woman did what she asked, she sliced it from one side to the other.

Sherry held her bleeding arm over the tray.

Jill put a blast of the shotgun through the advancing legs of one of the suits of armor. It tumbled down in a spill of metal. And then it rose again, unharmed.

She tossed down the shotgun.

Ada set the katana down on the ground by Sherry and the three of them moved toward the suits of armor.

Leon spun a beautiful back kick at the first that hit it at the hip and sent it stumbling into the wall. Jill followed that up with a short-legged thrust to the sternum of the armor and it went over onto its back. She snatched its hatchet away.

Ada rolled away from the swinging ax of the other, grabbing its ankles as she did. She jerked, spilling it down onto the floor to join its brother.

The ceiling was head height now and they were forced to crouch. It limited their ability to fight.

Sherry was leaning heavily against the wall. She'd cut herself three times now and was desperately short on blood. Leon rushed toward her and shoved her aside.

"Are you stupid?"

"It wants life to get through. Let me finish!"

"It doesn't need one damn person to do it!" He cut his arm and held it over the tray. "Jill!"

She shoved the armor she was fighting upward, it was spitted like a moth to the descending ceiling.

Jill ran toward them and slashed her arm when Leon stepped aside. She held her bleeding arm over the tray.

Leon raced, a little light-headed, back to the battle with the other armor. Ada was on the ground, struggling. He grabbed the chest plate and pulled, sending it up to stick like its twin.

Ada rolled and they hurried back to the front of the room and a very low crouch now. Ada moved to slice her arm and the tray clicked, fulfilled. It rolled back into the door and then they opened. The group pushed through, Ada rolling through last just as the ceiling finished its final descent and smashed into the floor where she'd been moments before.

They'd made it. But now they were trapped here with no way back.

Sherry was very pale and shaky. Leon was binding her arm with a piece of Jill's lab coat.

She was trying to shove him away. "I'm fine! I'm fine! Just give me a minute."

And she was. Because her arm had healed before he even finished binding it. She bound his instead.

They were in a dining room. A long, long table stretched out before them. It was shiny and mahogany and old. It had no less than thirty places to sit surrounding it. A fireplace crackled at one side, casting warmth across the cold room.

Leon gathered his thoughts, taking a moment to feel the warmth of that fire.

And the voice came again, happy. "Six hours to find meeee! And you're doing so well! So brave, Sherry! We're you saving your lover? He must be delicious in bed! Hurry hurry! You're almost there! Of course, …you're not alone."

And the tyrant dropped down onto the dining room table, screaming. It landed with a noise akin to a bomb going off. Somehow the table held the weight without much protest. It was soaked in blood, covered in bullet holes, but still hungry.

And it stalked, slowly, across the table toward them.

Leon hefted the sword…and rolled onto the table.

"Are you stupid?!" Jill yelled at him.

"I've been known to be. Get them moving. Now!"

He rushed toward the tyrant. Jill, Ada, and Claire ran for the far door. Sherry leaped up onto the table behind the tyrant.

It stopped, jerked its head, jerked it back. Sherry had the shotgun aimed at it.

"Over here! You idiot!"

It paused, considering. Leon yelled, "Get out of here! Don't be stupid!"

"Why not? It's sexually transmitted." And she unloaded a shotgun blast into its back.

The tyrant roared and reversed, charging her. She stumbled but held didn't go down, she lifted the gun and was too slow. It swiped its arm at her and knocked her aside. She went up, smashed into the ceiling, and came back down to smash against the floor.

Jill and Claire grabbed her to pull her away. Ada grabbed the shotgun and it knocked her away as well. She hit the door and fell through to the other side.

The room beyond was open and had a telescope to look through the glass ceiling above. And a single piano that was shiny and beautiful. A sheet of music rested on the piano, daring someone to play. The doors beside the piano were happily locked.

Leon and the tyrant dueled now. It swept those claws at him and he rolled, coming up to swipe the katana at its waiting legs. Muscle and flesh split, blood sprayed and the tyrant wailed, using its none clawed hand to grab him by the throat and lift him, dangling him in a choking hold.

He drove the sword into its belly. He couldn't free it now. The sword was trapped in its body. It roared in his face and shook him, like a cat with a mouse. He felt his teeth gnash together. He saw it coming and knew there was no stopping it. It lifted its arm back to spear him with those horrid claws.

And he closed his eyes, waiting for the moment of death. Let it be quick, he prayed, just let it be quick.

The tyrant roared, roared. And Leon's eyes opened a little to see what the problem was.

Later he'd wonder if it was a delusional dream. Surely it had to be.

Chris Redfield was holding that clawed arm in his hands. He was covered in blood and his chest was scarred but he was alive. The black tank top made the scars on his skin stand out in sharp relief.

He grabbed the hilt of the katana and jerked it clean. It exited the body of the tyrant in a burst of blood and torn flesh. The tyrant roared and tossed Leon away.

He rolled as he landed and couldn't quite believe what he saw.

Chris rolled the bloody blade in his hand. His face…his face was empty, calm. He even did something incredible, smiled at it.

"Thought you'd had the last laugh, didn't you? You ugly piece of shit."

The tyrant swiped at him and Chris severed its clawed hand from it with a single swing of the sword. It sliced through flesh and bone with inhuman strength behind it. He hipped a kick into the belly of the beast next, driving it back from him as it wailed in denied rage.

And then he drove the sword into the beating heart on its chest. He stabbed it clean through and twisted, jerking it back out in an arc of blood and pulsing muscle. The tyrant teetered, tottered and fell down on its face…still.

Covered in the tyrant's blood, Chris put his hand down to Leon and jerked him to his feet.

"How?"

Chris shrugged and met his eyes. "I don't know. I woke up…healed. Better then healed. Stronger, faster, alive."

They moved into the room with the women.

Ada was messing at the piano with Jill. Claire turned first and froze. She took a step, then a second, and then ran.

He caught her as she leaped into his arms and held her close.

She was laughing and crying. "You have to be kidding me! How are you here?"

Leon shifted his eyes to Sherry. She was clutching her hands and unclutching them. "I'd say it worked."

Sherry nodded, slowly. "It must have…but…how do you feel?"

Chris smiled, rolled his shoulders. The scars were very prominent. He looked like he'd lost a fight with Freddy Krueger. But he felt fantastic.

"Awesome. Seriously. I should have been afraid of that damn tyrant but I wasn't. I KNEW how to kill it. I knew where it would strike and how it would move. I just knew."

Sherry nodded a little, still wringing her hands. "There might be side effects. Growing up I had a lot of things there were weird about me. I could smell people, first off. And sense them."

"Cool."

She shook her head, moved a little toward him. "There's one thing…we should get it out of the way now."

She put a hand out for Ada. Ada lifted a brow.

"May I see your arm please?"

"Why?"

"Ada…it has to be you. I'll explain in a moment. But we need to know how bad it can get."

Ada gave over her arm, slowly. Sherry put out her other hand for the katana. Chris, curious, handed it to her. She knicked Ada's skin at the elbow. The other woman didn't jerk but stared at the tiny drop of blood that turned into a little stream.

Jill started to ask a question, "Ok but wha—"

He knocked Sherry away in the rush. He moved like one of them. Like the tyrant, like the beasts. He grabbed Ada's arm and hyperextended it, his other arm wrapped at her waist as he picked her up to bring her closer to him. She watched, fascinated, as he stuck his mouth to the wound like a vampire. It was painful, yes, but not really more than a little stabbing jerk.

He feasted at the bend of her elbow like a thing possessed.

Jill moved forward and Sherry waved her back. "It's ok. Just wait. He can't help it. He can't. I couldn't either when I was little. My Dad he…kept me away from everyone for a long time until I could control it. The bloodlust. The hunger. Think of it like Blade. Bigger, faster, stronger…hungrier. You have all their strengths and…this. It's like a junkie looking for a fix."

"But why Ada?" Leon sounded curious, watching the show.

Sherry sighed a little. "He loves her. Emotion..it puts a smell in the blood, a nearly undefinable something that makes that person almost an obsession. It's hard to resist."

She turned her eyes to him. "Love is the best flavor of all. Like putting cherry syrup in your coke. It just makes good…better."

Chris licked at the wound like a dog now but it had closed. Ada was looking into his face. She felt like she was floating in a sea of something undefinable. She felt like she wanted to die right where she was, pressed against him.

Oh. Her blood hummed. He'd healed her arm. Clearly, something in him was restorative and communicable. Her fingers touched his mouth and he sucked one into the warmth of it. It tightened things low in her body.

She whispered, "Good?"

"...good. The first time I met you? I wondered what you'd taste like."

Goodness. Her blood was singing. He let go of her arm to tug her into him tighter. She made a small sound and let him roll his face against her chest, like a cat scent marking or something. He rubbed his chin all over her tank top-clad breasts.

The thing about it? They were both oblivious to the room around them watching with anime doll eyes. Wide - surprised - interested.

She was NOT a woman that played footsie with a man in public. And not in life and death circumstances. What was it here? Him? Or what was in him now? A hard question.

Sherry moved toward them. "Chris?"

He turned his eyes to her. They were very clear, very calm, and very Chris.

"Better?"

He smiled a little. "A little blood or being dead? I think I'm ok. I used to drink the stale beer at J's. This is nothing."

He lowered Ada down the front of his body. She slid against him and was very aware of how deliberate it was. She was also very aware of how happy the blood sharing had made him. She lifted a brow at him and said, quietly, "Not exactly the best of times for that. Seeing as we'll be dead in less than six hours."

"It's my penis…makes me do dumb stuff," He cupped the side of her face, "Ada. I was lying there..I could feel you. I could feel your grief. If I could have come back for you right then, I would have."

She shied away from the tenderness of it. But she craved the feeling of him.

She watched him, raptly, as he ducked his head to her. Her mind said: in front of all these people?! And he kissed her.

Yep. In front of all the people.

Worse yet? She opened her mouth for his tongue.

Jill bobbled her brows. Leon was staring at Sherry. She said, "Yeah...it's like that."

He tilted his head at her.

And she added, "Yeah, it's like that in me for you."

Claire rolled her eyes. Her brother came back from the dead to suck face with a spy. What was the world coming to?

"Not to interrupt your lovemaking over there, Romeo and Juliet, but does anyone know how to read music?"

Chris laughed a little and tugged Ada's hands out of his pants. She was nails deep in his ass and sorta...grinding a little on him.

He hated to set her away but they were in, at the moment, ass deep in enemies and on borrowed time. She was flushed and heavy-lidded and a little out of it. The moment she realized she was, she snapped upright and looked angry. He winked at Ada and turned to move toward his sister. She was giving him a very dirty look. He settled down at the piano and looked at the music.

"It's Whispers in Time," He put his hands on the keys and started playing, effortlessly, "It's Vermue."

Ada glanced at Leon who was watching her drolly.

"What?"

"...just wondering why I didn't get that reaction in Spain with the plagas in me."

Ada rolled her eyes and gave him a deadpan expression. Leon chuckled, enjoying her discomfort.

The ceiling started to spin, slowly, rotating to show the stars above turning and shifting. Ada put her eye to the telescope, watching it.

"It's spelling something out."

The pace of the music increased, spilling its haunting reverie over the room. And a place on the floor opened with a metal hiss.

A hunter leaped into the room, roaring. Chris stopped playing and the door started to close, the ceiling reverting to its previous state.

"No!" Sherry yelled, "Keep playing! We'll do this!"

Another panel opened and the second hunter emerged.

Ada picked up the sword and Chris started playing again. The music was their backdrop, their soundtrack, it acted as a cushion to make the tableau of fighting almost serene. The hunter rushed Claire and she unloaded five shots into it from her pistol. It whipped its ruined jaws around and smashed into her, taking them both into the far wall.

Ada drove the katana into its back and it turned, roaring. Jill obliterated its face with the shotgun in a spray of brains and blood. The other hunter was cornering Sherry. She shot it twice and it knocked her into the wall. It went in for the kill and Leon smashed a lamp into the side of it, swinging high and hard like he was trying to hit a home run.

It turned on him and Sherry put the pistol to the back of its skull and pulled the trigger. It jerked, jerked, twitch, and fell over still twitching. The song ended…and the door was open.

The piano started to play now…on its own.

Chris rose from the bench, watching the keys press inward and the familiar and beautiful haunting thrill of music pour forth. It was something sad, beautiful, and made his chest tight at the emotion of it.

The voice came over the room.

"The plot thickens! We find our hero survives. Or does he? Time will tell."

They moved through the door and into a chamber beyond. It was a…throne room?

A throne sat in the middle of the floor…waiting.

"You've found my favorite chair! Of course, who will sit upon it? Who of you is brave enough to be…me? The only way into the tower is in that chair."

Jill moved toward the throne. She didn't hesitate, she sat down upon it.

The voice was laughing. "So cocky! So arrogant!" The throne locked her down. It drove steel spikes into her back, into her wrists, into her shoulders and she gasped in shock. Her blood spilled, red and hot, down upon the golden seat.

Claire yelled, "Let her go!"

"Oh don't worry! It won't kill her! Not yet! But it takes blood to face your fate. And it costs you everything to fight it!"

The floor depressed in a circle and the room began to spin, spin, faster and faster. They couldn't hold on. They tried. But it tossed them around like toys. It rose, spinning, spinning, spinning. Jill's blood propelled it up and out and out and out.

And it finally came to a stop with a clunk and a grind of metal.

The voice said, "Well done! Well done!...Five hours. Come find me! Let's play!"

And the throne released, spilling Jill to the floor. She was bleeding from her wounds but they were manageable. Mostly superficial.

Chris helped her up.

"You ok?"

She studied his face as he looked at the wound on her forearm. And then she lifted it to him and he put his mouth to it. He moved next to the one on her back left shoulder. Her breath shuddered out in a line and she couldn't help it, she liked it. She liked his mouth on her. She always had. It was all wrong. The timing and the situation and the world. It was all wrong. But it felt good to let him.

And it was probably ok to feel good in a shitty situation.

The doors opened and showed the endless expanse of the tower beyond.

They stood there, waiting, but they didn't have to wait long.

The voice came over the intercom. "I was going to show you my masterpiece. But you're not ready! Not yet! So come on! A little farther! Don't you want to see what's waiting at the top for you? I can't WAIT to show you!"

And somewhere in the distance, a bell began to toll.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17: Desolation**

* * *

 _"When waiting and bleeding and baiting and needing, she covets. She clings. She transcends."_

* * *

 **The Maze, Russia, April**

The smell of rotting meat was thick, cloying. It clutched and clung to the lungs like poison or the second hand smoke of a cigarette long since stubbed out. It left the taste on the back of the tongue with a vengeance, a legacy, leading one to believe the smell had pervaded their every sinus until there was nothing but the taste of death from ears to teeth.

For those who have known death, it was an oily taste. It is stale, sweet, like vomit left in the sunlight on a summer day. It reeks. It rids the mind of anything but the horror that most have occurred to cause it. It lingers, reminding those of its presence long after they wish they could escape its license to punish. Death leaves a stain, wet and wide, covering the mind and ensnaring the soul. And the smell…well…that's really just the beginning.

Death had dealt his hand all around him. He had painted the walls in the macabre stroke of a child bored with the mundane. He had done a Jackson Pollock on this room where they now stood. It was a stroke of severed carotid, a limb hacked away in a spray of arterial blood and bone. It was ground skin, and severed tendon, it was smashed flesh and eyes popped with the gleeful abandon of a grape between eager teeth. There was little to make of it and nothing, and too much. It was trying to piece together a jig saw puzzle of what had once been human.

And someone was breathing so loudly, so harshly.

It was the only sound.

In the silence of a horror filled nightmare, someone finally spoke, "What in the fuck happened here?"

Piles upon piles of corpses, mutilated, deformed. Someone had once been friends, some strangers. Some could still be recognized in a the bend of a jaw or the line of a lip. The sound of retching was loud as someone vomited now in a corner away from the heart of the horror.

The room was a perfect circle. It was nothing like anything they'd ever seen. It was empty save for this pyre of corpses and blood. The floor was sticky, squishy with waste and human life. It was like being inside the human corpse equivalent of a butcher shop. Several hung from the ceiling, gutted, strung up…trussed. They were disemboweled and dangling, slowly swaying back and forth.

The voice came over the intercom.

"You are all ready for the next chapter! Are you!? I'm so ready!"

The rotting meat smell was taken over as something thick and yellow began to pump out into the room. Gas.

The best that could be said for it is that it was quick.

You saw the gas and seconds later, the room went dark.

He awoke feeling like Luke in Empire Strikes Back. Maybe there was a light saber somewhere close by he could bring over to save them .

They were all dangling upside down now. Like the corpses that had occupied the spots before them. There was a sound somewhere in the distance of a dragging chain and a low pitched voice muttering. It was followed by the loud thunk of a cleaver striking meat.

Leon found himself looking straight into frightened blue eyes.

There was about ten of them hanging here now. He caught a glimpse of Sherry down the row but every one else was missing. There was no telling where they all were.

He swung his body a little, trying to get a look at the rest of the area. But it was a waste of time. He was trapped, like the rest, hanging here waiting to be hacked to death. The girl across from him was Anna – from the tower – he was terribly sorry she hadn't escaped. He opened his mouth to say something and the …man…with the meat cleaver stepped into view.

Although it might be generous calling him a man. He was a thing. A beast of a thing really. He had what appeared to be horns protruding from a face wrapped thick with bloody bandages. Two beady and ugly little eyes peered out of the blood wrappings. His body was fat but hardy, strapped in a butcher's apron stained with old blood and bodily fluids. And the smell was something like an open chest cavity baking in the sun.

He stopped beside them and Leon met Anna's frightened eyes. The butcher grasped his ankles, testing his weight. Leon tried to remain as silent and still as possible. The butcher turned to Anna, testing her weight. He sniffed and snorted, somewhat like a pig, he grabbed a handful of Leon's hair and lifted his head.

The sharp needles of pain drew his teeth together in a hiss. The butcher studied his face. The hand in his hair tightened and jerked, drawing his neck in a long, long line. This is it, Leon mused, what a way to die. This is how I go, hacked to death by the world's smelliest butcher.

In his other hand, the butcher held a hatchet. Not a cleaver. This was a hatchet, big, sharp and dripping with old blood. Jesus. Jesus Christ.

Leon felt the first roll of fear through his belly. It tightened his muscles and brought his eyes closed for a moment as he dug down deep for the strength to face death with courage. He smelled the fetid breath of the butcher near his face, sniffing him. There was the wet plop of spittle on his cheek. The moist pig nose snuffled at his ear.

And the butcher dropped him back to dangle again with a snort and a grunt.

The relief of it was short lived because Anna let out a cry.

"Oh please don't! No! Oh god!"

His eyes opened.

The butcher drew her taunt on her dangling hook.

"No!" Leon yelled it, loud, "No pick me! Me! You stupid fat bastard! Me!"

The butcher snorted and brought that hatchet down with a hard, sure, horrible thwack! It struck into the struggling, crying girl's body with a meaty thunk. Blood sprayed, geysering out to cover Leon and the butcher in a warm wet mist. The smell of copper was followed by her gurgling gasp as he drew the hatchet down from groin to sternum, splitting her open like a gutted pig.

Her intestines spilled outward in a steaming, stinking, putrid mass. Like squishy, stinky snakes they coiled around her face – now frozen in horror and pain. She blinked, twitched, and died with a single tear spilling down her cheek.

Someone was making a low sound of distress and it was a few moments before he realized it was him. He dug down to find the strength to drift back into silence. It was the most horrible thing he'd ever done.

The butcher grabbed her intestines and pulled, pulled, pulled and started hacking.

The wet meaty smacks of hatchet to flesh and organs filled the silence. Leon kept his eyes shut tight now and fought the urge to vomit. It lay in the back of his throat like a fine coating of grease. He wanted to scream, to weep, to give up.

But he'd never get the chance…

Because the butcher turned back to face him now, covered in Anna's blood.

And he knew, just like that, his time was up.

* * *

The circle was endless. Endless. Endless. Endless. It drug on and on and on. No matter where she turned, went, wandered…the circle would never end. She felt like she'd doubled back on herself fifteen times in the last twenty minutes.

Finally, Ada leaned against the wall, feeling angry and defeated.

This maze was ridiculous. It was. There was no escape here. No hope. She had awoken once again to find herself lying in the middle of a wide open space. One door was her only way out.

And she'd been wandering down empty, narrow, dank hallways ever since. She was fairly certain she'd never find a way out.

She turned her head and looked left and than right. Nothing.. Just endless, long, dark corridors with the smell of mildew and the faint scent of old blood. It was a nightmare in itself. She sighed and pushed away from the wall.

Digging down into her reserves, she started running. There was an end. There had to be. Someone had put her here. So there was a way out. She was missing it. That was all. It was here somewhere in this joke of a space.

And she'd find it or die trying.

* * *

"Do you see? Perfect. I told you…he's perfect!"

"No," This voice was high pitched and whiny. "I want to TASTE!"

"Wait…wait. If you taste, you could spoil him!"

He shifted, trying to awaken completely in the darkness. But something was covering his eyes. He could feel all his body, he was fairly certain; which probably meant he was in tact. So there was that small, but significant, accomplishment.

Two voices were arguing close to him apparently about whether or not they should taste him. "Taste" in this sentence and under this context scared him a little. Based on what they'd seen, Chris knew that taste would probably not be euphemistic.

"Taste the sister!" It reminded him of Gollum from Lord of the Rings. The voices were clearly the same person but with multiple personalities. Similar to Alfred and Alexia, it was obvious the speaker had split themselves into two people inside their own head. "The sister should taste as good!"

Chris waited with bated breath.

"Ok!"

No. Nope. That wasn't going to happen. They could not, would not, ever be able to touch his baby sister. Nope. Never.

He heard Claire struggling somewhere in her own bonds.

"Hold still! Or we will CUT YOU!"

And now she was quiet.

Chris shifted and jerked, pulling at where he was bound. In the dark, it was impossible to tell how he was tethered. But he could feel he was bound at the hands and the feet. He started to jerk his body, testing the bonds.

"He's awake!"

"Oh goody!"

The blindfold was pulled off. And he found himself looking into the face of a little girl. She smiled, happy, elated.

"I was hoping you would wake up! I've been waiting!" She was blonde and pretty and had two little pig tails of swishing hair. She kissed his forehead now…and then promptly licked it.

"OOOOh! He tastes soooo good. SO GOOD!"

She tilted her head, listening to the voices inside her skull. "I agree! We should go UNDER the skin."

He tried to speak beyond the gag in his mouth. He could just see Claire's feet beyond the little girl's shoulder. The feet were still. The rest of the body was lost behind a specimen tank. He didn't know if she was alive or not at this point.

The little girl pulled out the gag. "Yes?"

"Cut me loose."

"Now why would I? I'm little! And you're SO BIG!"

"I won't hurt you. But cut me loose and we can play together."

She studied him. He should have seen it coming. But he was unable to move anyway. So the little knife cut across his cheek fast and sharp. He felt the heat of blood spill down his skin. And she was licking his face.

Like a dog.

He shuddered in disgust. She couldn't be more than eight or nine years old. Although he figured she was some kind of…something else. So the body was young but the person inside it wasn't. Or hadn't always been.

She shivered with delight and pulled away. "You didn't die. But you did die. But you came back! Like me!"

"Did you die?"

"I did! But then I came back…as this." She smiled down at him. "Time is almost up now. I don't think any of you are going to get away."

"You changed the rules. You didn't make it fair."

That little face pouted at him. "I don't like fair. Fair is dumb. Fair is boring. And I don't like to be bored!"

She danced away to turn on the row of monitors behind her. His eyes scanned each screen.

On the first – Jill and…Ada. They were running down a corridor and a pack of decaying wolves followed close behind.

On the second – Anna…sweet Anna. Dead. Disemboweled. And Leon next on the menu for the horrid monster facing him. Sherry dangling in the line, shaking and scared.

On the third –A blood slick rock dangling over the endless drop into nothing with Moira Burton bound to it like an offering. No...no...not nothing...spikes. Spikes covered in blood and darkness.

God.

GOD.

There was a shout from somewhere beyond them. The little girl tilted her head, she listened. She smiled, wide, "Oh my …oh MY….GUESTS!"

She leaned down and kissed his mouth, softly. "We have guests coming. I didn't expect them, but the table is always set for them."

She studied his face, looking at him like he was possibly a side of steak. "What do you taste like under the skin?"

Ugh.

He said nothing, watching her with an unwavering stare that made her twitch. She twitched and shifted her gaze. She moved fast and slashed Claire's leg.

His sister moaned from where he couldn't see her.

Chris shouted, "Hey! HEY! Not her! Over here, cut me loose yeah? We'll play."

The girl licked Claire's leg and shivered. She sighed. She laughed. "I like her. The sister tastes good. She tastes of two. Of TWO, Chris Redfield. Do you know? Two. She isn't one, she's two."

What did that even mean?

The little girl shifted toward him. "You will play with me? How?"

He studied her pretty face. A pretty girl, for a psycho. "You like to hunt right? You want to be entertained?"

He leaned forward, his smile a wolfish grin, "Cut me loose. Let me run. And chase me. I'll give you the hunt of your life."

Claire was making sounds of horror and distress. He knew she'd kick his ass if she got loose. That was ok. That was good. Because she'd be alive.

A little boat whipped passed on the monitor behind the little girl. Chris blinked, catching the flash of red hair on it. Guests, she'd said, there were only a handful of them in the world with that color hair that would show up to play. He was there for the girl bound to the rock, no lie about that.

The other one on the boat?

That one was here for Claire.

He just had to get this bitch away from her so they could find her.

The little girl studied him, "You want to be my prey?"

Chris smiled at her, eyes flashing, "Yeah. You bet. What's your name?"

The little girl touched his mouth, gently. She rubbed at it and leaned forward to lick his nose. He kept his face blank. She nibbled his ear and giggled, "Miko."

"Miko." He smiled at her, keeping his face happy, "Why don't you let me loose? I'm not like the rest of them anymore. I'll give you the greatest hunt you've ever known."

Miko grinned and clapped, dancing a little, "You promise?"

"Oh, I promise. I do. But…you have to let my sister go ok? Let her go join up with the other girls. They'll all be dead soon enough anyway right?"

Considering it, Miko finally grinned, "Fair enough! I accept! I can barely stand it! New guests, a big dinner, a pre-dinner hunt…and soon? We'll dine on the entrails of your former comrades! It's so exciting!"

Gross.

Jesus.

He never wanted to eat Leon Kennedy, not euphemistically, not in theory and not in general. And he definitely didn't want to eat him for dinner as the guest of this bitch.

No.

The little girl cut his bonds and he rose, pacing away. She cut Claire loose and kicked her thigh. "Go on, red haired sister! Go join your other friends! Go run like the rat you are! Run for two! Fight for six when you find them! Fight and die! SHOO!"

Claire gave him a pointed look over her head. Chris shook his and tried to tell her with his eyes to, just once, do what she was told.

And then?

She put a hand on her belly.

She just…put her hand there.

And he GOT IT. She tasted of two. She was fighting for two. Two.

The boy on the boat? He wasn't just coming to save his woman. He was coming to save his baby mama.

It should have been a really good moment. Claire had always wanted children. Always. It should have been beautiful.

It was laced with a panic like Chris had never known. Because it wasn't just her now. It was them. There were three Redfields in this room fighting for their life now.

He breathed, softly, "Claire…"

She laughed, teary eyed, "Stay alive. Idiot. Stay alive. For both of us."

She turned and ran.

Miko turned back to him, laughing, "She runs for TWO! Exciting, yeah? You know? I know something you don't know…"

Chris held her gaze. "What? What do you know?"

"Nope! NO WAY! RUN! Entertain me! And maybe I'll tell you!" Sing song, like a little girl. Taunting, like a game. Terrifying, like a monster. "RUN! RUNNNNN!"

It was high pitched and horrible. It echoed. It shrieked.

He ran.

Because standing there wasn't going to save anyone.

If he could keep her focus on him, just for a little longer, the rest of them just might stay alive.

But he needed help to do it.

He needed to find the fucking room where Kennedy was dangling. He was dead if Chris didn't get there. Dead. And he needed another rat to run this maze with him and protect all these fucking women.

Somewhere, Jill, Ada, Claire and Sherry were giving him the finger of feminist wrath but that was ok too. Because he'd be a misogynistic asshole until the cows came home if it kept them alive. Kennedy could find a fart on a foggy day. He could track anything.

And they needed to find that boat and the men on it.

He needed to save Leon Kennedy, soon. Right now. He had no clue where to find him.

And he was pretty sure he was just about out of time.


End file.
